The Things We Don't Share
by tutncleo
Summary: Tony gets caught up in an old case from his past. Tony/Gibbs eventually.
1. Part 1

**The Things We Don't Share – Part One**

"_We dance around in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows."_ – Robert Frost

Chapter One:

Everyone has secrets: secrets we revisit in our most private moments, secrets that make us smile, secrets we keep to protect others, secrets that cause shame, secrets that are too painful to share, secrets we keep even from ourselves, secrets that fester - infecting us like an untreated wound. Tony DiNozzo was in the secrets business – Tony DiNozzo was a cop. Oh sure, he was called a Special Agent now that he worked for NCIS, but the job was not that much different from the work he had done as a detective for the Philadelphia and Baltimore police forces before being recruited by the federal agency. He spent every day working to ferret out the things the criminals he arrested tried to hide. He dug into their backgrounds, talked to their co-workers, family and friends, pored through their bank statements, phone records, emails, journals, and letters until he found the secret they had tried to keep hidden – the secret that revealed the dark side of their personality, the secret that led to his interest in the first place, the secret that caused another to die. And once he had done that, he got them to admit to the secret.

That was what Tony was doing now. He sat beside a table in one of the interrogation rooms. His feet, clad in imported Italian leather shoes, propped up on the table's top, supporting his long legs. The chair that held the rest of his well muscled, yet lean body tilted dangerously on its back two legs, as he picked at imaginary dirt under his nails with the sharp file of a nail clipper. The reason for his being in the room, Jason Burns, sat in a chair across from him, dirty and rumpled, staring at Tony. They had been in the room for an hour and not a word had been spoken. Burns had been brought in first, cuffed to the chair, and then abandoned to his own thoughts and concerns. Half an hour later, Tony had arrived. Pulling up a chair, unbuttoning the beautifully tailored grey linen suit he wore, straightening his burgundy silk tie; he had sat down, crossed his legs, and proceeded to read through the material in the manila file folder he had carried in with him. After spending fifteen minutes looking over the notes, he had placed the folder on the table, removed the clipper from his inside breast pocket, and leaned back in his chair. For the last forty-five minutes he had clipped, filed and tended to all of the fingers on both his hands, never once acknowledging Burns presence.

In the room beside the interrogation room Tony occupied, watching through the two way mirror, stood Leroy Jethro Gibbs and Timothy McGee. Gibbs was Tony's boss, the team leader; his silver hair and the lines around his startlingly blue eyes attesting to his years of experience. His strong arms were crossed in front of his chest, and he watched the scene unfolding in the next room with amusement. Younger and softer, Timothy McGee shifted impatiently from one soft soled black walking shoe to another. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his practical brown cotton Dockers, and the wrinkled, open necked white button down shirt he wore under a tweedy tan jacket showed signs of sweat and long hours of wear.

"I thought when he said he had a new technique he wanted to try out, it would involve actually talking to the suspect!" McGee whined to Gibbs. He knew Tony was being rewarded; it had been Tony's interviews with the patrons at the bar that had led to their discovery of Burns, it was just Gibbs never let him conduct interviews. Sure, he was still the newest member of the team, but all of their tenure together was now measured in years, not months. He understood that Tony was the senior agent, had even led the team on more than one occasion, but that didn't prevent jealousy from rearing its ugly head.

Gibbs looked over at McGee, catching his eye. For an instant McGee was sure that Gibbs saw all of his bitterness and envy and he prepared himself for the head slap he expected to follow. He was surprised when, instead, Gibbs gave a small smirk and said, "Watch and learn McGee," and then turned his attention back to the window.

Burns was getting restless now. He had tried shifting in the chair and clearing his throat repeatedly. Finally, unable to take the silent dismissal any longer, he demanded, "Aren't you going to tell me what this is about?"

"Petty Officer Angela Rodgers," Tony said, looking at him for a second, before returning his attention to his nails.

"Who?" Burns asked.

"Angela Rodgers; she's dead," Tony answered, not even looking up.

Silence fell back over the room. Burns was not stranger to interrogations. In his short, twenty four years, he had been hauled into countless police stations for fighting, disorderly conduct, and public intoxication. He had a reputation for being a hot head, quick to solve any dispute with his fists. He had even done six months in county for battery. When NCIS agents had shown up at the door of the rundown boarding house he rented a room from, he knew instantly what it was about. When they said they were taking him back to headquarters to question him about his whereabouts last Thursday night, he was already plotting his alibi. He had expected to be grilled about what happened at the bar that night, and had his lie ready and waiting. What he had not expected was to be shoved in a room and summarily ignored.

Burns looked back over at the agent, who had put away the nail clipper and was now busily engaged in typing out some message on the keypad of his phone. He was just the kind of guy Burns hated. He sat there in his fancy designer suit, his thick brown hair carefully styled, with a smug look on his chiseled, handsome face. Burns could just see him in a bar, telling some joke, green eyes flashing, shit eating grin on his face, and all the ladies hanging off of him. It was always easy for that kind of guy, Burns thought. Bet he never heard the word no, and he hated him for it. Burns didn't have that kind of luck. Born with an unfortunately weak chin, which had not been helped by the extra seventy five pounds he was carrying around, women tended to ignore him, or worse yet, laugh at his clumsy advances. That's what had happened with that bitch Thursday night. When his rage had subsided, and he looked at her broken body lying in the alley behind the bar, he had reassured himself with the knowledge that she had had it coming. And now, here he was again, being ignored again.

"So what happened to her?" Burns couldn't resist asking.

"Murdered," was the one word answer he received.

"And you thing I did it?" Burns asked indignantly, ready to vehemently deny all accusations.

"No, I know you did it and I know why too," came the smug reply, accompanied by a condescending glance from the agent, who then promptly turned his attention back to his phone.

That was it for Burns, just who did this asshole think he was? As if he could know what had happened, how that bitch had acted. "There's no way you could know," Burns exploded. "Did you see her spit at me, call me a fat slob? That bitch got what she asked for!" he blurted, before he could even think.

As his own words began to sink in, Burns watched the agent straighten up, place the phone back into his pocket, and stand. "Okay, looks like we're about done in here. Someone will be in to read you your rights and get your statement," he said as he casually pushed the chair he had been sitting in back under the table. Walking to the door, he paused, just before opening it and turned and looked at Burns, the predatory look in his eyes belying the smile on his face. "Thanks for cooperating," he said, and with that he left the room.

In the next room, McGee had been stunned by what had just happened. Gibbs was laughing, and when he looked over at his junior agent, he said, "Close your mouth McGee, flies are going to get in."

McGee was spared having to reply when the door to the room opened up and Tony strutted in. He was grinning from ear to ear, all the indifference he had shown during the interview replaced by excitement mixed with satisfaction. "And that's how you milk out a confession, Probie!" he gloated to McGee. "Did you see his face when he realized what he'd said. A Kodak moment! I hope the video got it. I'm going to want to watch the replay."

"Don't sprain something, DiNozzo, patting yourself on the back," came Gibbs gruff reply, but the pride in his eyes revealed his pleasure with Tony's results.

"Come on Boss; you've got to admit I played him like a pro," Tony said, angling for more direct praise.

"I don't have to do anything, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled. "Get upstairs, you two, and get your reports done so we can get out of here sometime before tomorrow morning." But as Tony passed by him, Gibbs clapped him on the back once, silently signaling his congratulations.

It didn't take them long to clear up their paperwork so that they could go home, and Tony found himself back in his apartment, a pizza cooling on his coffee table, by six thirty. He had not yet come down from the adrenaline rush he had experienced when Burns had inadvertently confessed, but didn't really know how he wanted to burn it off. He had ruled out going to a bar and picking up some anonymous guy or girl for a one night stand; recently that just hadn't been as satisfying as it once was, and the awkwardness of the morning after was something he didn't want to have to deal with. Neither Abby nor McGee had wanted to go out for drinks, both begging off, claiming prior engagements. Tony secretly suspected the plans involved each other, but didn't call them on it - who was he to breach the don't ask, don't tell rule. He wished he had a new DVD to watch since none of his old favorites held any appeal that night. Finally, he decided to fall back on his never fail solution for occupying his time.

Going over to the computer desk, nestled in the window alcove of his living room, he opened up the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick faded blue folder, stuffed full of yellowing papers. Grabbing a slice of pizza as he sat down on his cream colored leather sofa and, placing the folder on his lap, he flipped open the cover and began to read the top sheet. He spent the better part of an hour flipping through the dog eared pages as he absentmindedly ate half of the pizza. Occasionally something on one page would catch his attention, sparking a memory, and he would shuffle through the reams of paper until he found what he was looking for, and then he would compare the information on the two pages. Finally, he pulled out a fading photograph, and closing the file, he leaned back to study the picture.

Cassie Mae Edwards, with shining, long wavy flaxen hair, soft cornflower blue eyes, and a shy smile, looked out from the photograph at him. She had been just eighteen when that picture had been taken to commemorate her graduation from high school. Of all the pictures in the file, this was his favorite. He loved the tiny bow attached to the headband, holding back her heavy hair; there was something so innocent and optimistic about it, like the first buds of the crocus his mother used to watch for, as they pushed up through the snow. This was a picture of a young woman, just about to begin exploring the world in order to find her place. It was also the picture that haunted him, late at night, calling him back to the file.

Tony had caught her case his second month on the Philadelphia police force. At the time he had been assigned to the least desirable department for detectives, Missing Persons, partially because of his youth and inexperience, and partially due to the jealousy and suspicion the older, more experienced cops had for him. He had come to Philly from Peoria, Illinois, touted by the upper echelon as an example of the new kind of police officer, college educated and sophisticated; never mind that his major in college had been Phys. Ed., and he often behaved more like a frat boy at a party than a highly recommended detective. Having transferred into the department, rather than going through the Philly police academy, he didn't have a ready made group of friends and was viewed as an outsider. Although he was friendly and fun to party with there was an invisible barrier around him that prevented others from getting too close. His reluctance to share too much about his personal life, and his obvious appreciation for expensive things set him further apart. Coupled with that was his quick wit and even quicker tongue, and before he knew it, no one was in a hurry to partner with him. Missing Persons allowed for individual work, the detectives only teaming together when they were in the midst of a hot case that needed multiple paths of investigation.

She had been missing a little over forty eight hours when the captain dropped her file on Tony's desk. At the time the file consisted of the bright royal blue folder and a single piece of paper, the missing persons report filed by her college roommate. According to the roommate, Cassie had gone to the library late Friday afternoon to work on a paper that was due on Monday. The roommate, Felicity Gomez, had gone away for the weekend on a skiing trip with her boyfriend, and was surprised, but not overly concerned when Cassie didn't come home Sunday night. It wasn't until Cassie didn't show up Monday morning for the psychology class the two girls were both in, that Felicity became concerned enough to call the police. Apparently Cassie had never missed a class in the two years they had roomed together. Tony wasn't too worried, having been in college not too long ago himself. He knew all about the impromptu weekend that got a little out of control and stretched into the next week. Tucking the folder under his arm, he had headed off to Temple University to interview the roommate and Cassie's friends, confident that the case would be solved in a day or two.

The two days had stretched into two weeks. No one seemed to remember seeing her after about eight o'clock Friday afternoon, as she sat in a cubicle at the library. There were no phone calls from her, no charges to her one credit card, and no activity on her bank account. Her roommate looked through her possessions and assured Tony that nothing was missing. None of her friends had any idea what could have happened to her, claiming everyone loved Cassie, that she was incapable of offending anyone, and would be the last person in the world to run away without saying a word. When it was discovered that she came from a very wealthy New York family there was speculation that it could be a kidnapping, but as the days passed with no ransom demands, that idea was discarded. There had been a boyfriend she had dated for over a year, but that relationship had ended a month prior. When Tony interviewed the ex-boyfriend he had taken an instant dislike to him, finding him to be smart mouthed and defensive, but the boyfriend had alibied up, claiming to be at a fraternity party that night, and six of his fellow Alpha Phi's had vouched for him. Tony didn't trust them; he had been in a frat and he knew it was a lot like being in the service; you always had a brother's six – you never let them down – but he had never been able to find proof of any lying. Finally, when no body or sign of her appeared, it became clear the case was going nowhere. Despite Tony's protests, his captain had insisted he shelf it and move on to cases that were actually solvable.

It wasn't the only case Tony never solved over the years, but it was the one that bothered him the most. Maybe it was because it was the first, or maybe it was because he had always believed it was solvable. In his more honest moments he acknowledged to himself that it was more likely because he had identified with Cassie. Her friends had expressed sadness over her disappearance, but all too soon became caught back up in their own lives, Cassie's disappearance not seeming to have left any permanent marks on them. In the two weeks he had actively worked on the case her parents could not be bothered to come to Philadelphia to talk to him in person, her father too busy with work and her mother tied up with various charitable and social commitments; their once a day phone calls dwindling as the days went on. By the time Cassie's file was moved over to Cold Cases, it was Tony who had to call to inform her parents. Tony understood what that was like. When his mother had been alive, she had made the occasional attempt to include Tony in her life, but her own immaturity and self centeredness, compounded by the eventual drinking problem, had made her attempts at maternal interest less than effective. He remembered all of the basketball games and school activities his father had been too busy to attend, content with sending a servant in his stead when Tony was young, and solving any parental responsibility by sending him away to boarding school when he became a teenager. Cassie had been a phantom in her parent's lives, passing through occasionally, but leaving no lasting impression. Tony felt the need to make her real, to have her truly matter to at least one person, even if that one person was a young police officer who had never even met her.

For whatever the reason, after he was forced off the case Tony created a new file, making copies of all the transcripts of interviews and the pages of his own notes, tucking them in a new blue folder. By that time the original file had grown from a meager one page, to almost three quarters of an inch thick. Stowing the duplicate file in his backpack one night, he took it home with him. That had been eleven years, two police departments, and one federal agency ago. The duplicate file was now almost two inches thick. Tony had set aside one Sunday out of every month since then to work on the case. He kept track of the friends and ex-boyfriend, watching for anything that might have some bearing on what had happened to Cassie. He searched other missing persons reports that had similarities to Cassie's case, on the long shot that what had happened to her had been just one incident involving a serial offender. He resubmitted her to The National Center for Missing Adults yearly, listing himself as a contact person for any and all reported sightings, and had followed up on every dead end tip or sighting that had been generated through that. And on nights like tonight, when he couldn't seem to settle down, looking over the file for anything he might have overlooked or not connected properly effected him like Ritalin for a hyper active child - providing him focus and reaffirming his commitment and purpose.

This wasn't the side of Tony DiNozzo he showcased. That was reserved for the happy- go- lucky prankster immune to hurtful words, the womanizer who ran away from true commitment, and the superficial ex-little rich boy who still craved status symbols. But if one looked closer, one could see this side of him. It peeked out when he came back to work in the wee hours of the morning to dig deeper into the particulars of a case that was bothering him. It could be glimpsed when he acted as a buffer against Gibbs' bad moods, protecting his co-workers by drawing the scathing remarks and disapproval to himself. And as demonstrated by today's interrogation, it became visible as he manipulated and outsmarted innumerable suspects over the years. It was this side of him that made him invaluable to the team and secured his place as Gibbs' second in command. And unbeknownst to him, it was this side of him that had first attracted Gibbs' attention and respect, all those years ago, when they had worked a joint case in Baltimore.

Looking at the photo one last time, Tony gave a small, defeated sigh and replaced it into the file which he then sat on the table next to the box of pizza. Looking at his watch he was surprised to discover it was now eleven o'clock. Knowing that he needed to be in the office by seven to follow up on Burns' arrest, he stood and stretched to his full height, reaching towards the ceiling. The prolonged hours of sitting, hunched over the file, checking and double checking all the facts of the case had taken their toll, and his muscles had bunched into tightly knotted lumps. As he reached up he could feel them slowly unkinking, feel the vertebra in his back stack one atop the next. God that felt good, he thought. Lowering his arms, he reached down and picked up the file. Taking it over to the desk he looked at the open drawer. Somehow it felt wrong to put it back in. Still holding the file, he kneed the drawer closed. Reaching back in to the folder he withdrew the picture one more time and set the file on the top of the desk. Tracing a finger over Cassie's hair, he smiled and then set the photo on top of the file. Then, just before he reached over to switch off the halogen desk lamp he said, "Two more days Cassie, then we'll spend the whole day together," and with this promise he switched off the lamp and headed for bed.

Chapter Two:

5:30 came sooner then Tony wanted. Smashing his hand down on the button of the alarm clock he moaned, threw the covers off and swung his legs out and over the side of the bed. Squinting, his eyes refusing to open all the way, he staggered to the bathroom and reached in, turned on the shower then shaved, brushed his teeth, and answered nature's call while the water heated. After stepping into the shower, he tilted his head back and let the water beat down on his face and shoulders, hoping to wash away the sleep and allow his brain to kick in. Finally, hair shampooed and conditioned, body scoured, he felt awake enough to emerge and face the day. After grabbing the towel off the bar and drying himself off, he headed for the kitchen to fill a mug with coffee, having set the timer on the machine last night before going to bed.

Doctoring it his taste, he took a few sips, carried the mug into the bedroom with him and pulled open the double doors of his closet. Continuing to drink while standing naked in front of his closet, he gazed at the contents, trying to decide what to wear that day. Winter was fast approaching and he could feel the chill in the air as it teased at his damp, bare skin, causing him to shiver. He set the mug down on the small side table next to the open doors. Deciding to embrace the concept of casual Friday, he pulled out a new black turtleneck, indulging himself as he ran the cashmere sweater across his face. Pulling it on, he reached back in and grabbed out his favorite pair of jeans- just tight enough to be flattering but not so tight as to restrict movement- which he shimmied into, not bothering with underwear, and closed the left side door of the closet. Looking at himself in the mirror affixed to the front of the door, he decided he had best add a jacket to the mix, not wanting to look too informal, and removed a grey suede sports coat. Glancing quickly back at his reflection, satisfied with what he saw, he closed the other door. He grabbed up his coffee and walked across the room, stopping to pull a pair of socks from a drawer in his dresser and grabbing up the pair of black boots which he had left by the wall after toeing them off last night, and headed for the living room to put them on.

Once he was completely dressed and properly caffeinated Tony headed off to work. Stepping out of the elevator as the doors opened revealing the bullpen, he made his way to his desk, pausing to exchange a few words of greeting with some of his fellow early birds. Once seated, he noted Gibbs' jacket hung on the hook next to his desk, but saw no sign of his boss. Knowing that meant he was probably up in Vance's office for his daily briefing, Tony winced slightly. Gibbs never returned from those a happy camper and it usually took at least two more cups of coffee before he was civil again, or at least as close as Gibbs ever came to being civil. Vance and Gibbs were too much alike he thought. They circled around each other like two tomcats, sniffing and clawing, both looking for ways to mark their territory. Hell, they both even had a fixation for wood, although Vance chewed his up, while Gibbs preferred to slowly mold his into something he had envisioned. Tony liked that analogy; it described the fundamental difference between the two men. Vance was quick to discard things when they were no longer useful or became difficult to manage; look at what he had done to the team after Jenny's death. Gibbs, on the other hand, was content to bide his time, sanding away slowly at imperfections, even nudging and prodding when necessary, until he had the team he wanted. Gibbs was a worker of wood, while Vance was a user. Shaking his head and laughing quietly in self deprecation, he told himself it was way too early in the morning to be trying to psychoanalyze anyone, although there were times when he was sure that Gibbs would readily agree that Tony resembled a block of wood. Amused by the joke he had just made at his own expense, he left his musing behind and powered up his computer, eager to be hard at work before Gibbs appeared.

McGee rolled in not too long after that, waved hello to Tony, and immediately set to work. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Tony wondered when they had changed. They now lived by the motto, 'early is on time and on time is late'. When Ziva had still been there things had been looser, more relaxed, which was pretty funny, Tony thought, appreciating the irony of an assassin being a soothing presence. Now that it was just the two of them and Gibbs, they had all voluntarily increased their hours in some unspoken and unacknowledged attempt to ward off the need for replacing her, leaving very little time for idle chitchat or pointless goofing around. Balling up a piece of paper, Tony launched it over at McGee, aiming for his head, needing to break himself free from the melancholy that had hung on him like an invisible shroud since last night.

"Quit it Tony," McGee said, as the paper cannonball grazed his left cheek. He didn't even bother looking over at his fellow agent.

Deciding that was never going to do, Tony prepared another missile and launched it, this time connecting with McGee's nose.

McGee, obviously having decided to take the higher ground, refused to acknowledge the second hit.

Yanking several more sheets of paper from his printer, Tony prepared for war. As another projectile hit his head, McGee gave in, and grabbing one of the discarded wads of paper, he fired back. Things escalated rapidly from there. Soon they were both up and out of their chairs, ducking down under desks to avoid hits, running around the bullpen, weaving in and out of various cubicles seeking cover, pummeling each other with paper bullets. Tony was alternating between Rambo and John Wayne imitations as he stepped out from behind shelter, taunting McGee to give it his best shot. The other agents already in for the day, darted out of the way, cheering them on, and laughing as the mock battle grew in hilarity.

Standing unnoticed at the head of the stairs which led to Vance's office and MTAC, Gibbs watched the proceedings, enjoying his aerial view, unwilling to break it up just yet. It had been too long since he had seen his two agents this alive, and contrary to popular opinion, he didn't always feel the need to live up to his bastard image. McGee was now laughing, holding a three ring binder out in front of him as a shield, while goading Tony on, hoping to get him to step out into the open. Studying Tony, Gibbs noticed the flush on his cheeks and the joyful grin that lit up his face. Tony had discarded his sports jacket several minutes before to afford himself more range of motion, and the black turtleneck clung to his body, adhering to the sweat that was forming from the exertion of the fight. Gibbs took a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of Tony, the athletic body and the grace that accompanied his movements. When he saw Tony pull paper off of another agent's desk, preparing to rearm himself, he knew he had to call a stop to the game. Walking down the stairs, he snuck up behind Tony and trapped his hand in the middle of his backswing, just as he was winding up to send another ball of paper McGee's way.

Tony started and whirled around, just as Gibbs was saying, "I don't even want to hear the explanation you're forming in that head of yours DiNozzo. Help McGee get everything cleaned up. You'd better both have those reports I asked you for sitting on my desk, waiting for me, or I'll turn you both into balled up wads of paper," he threatened as he turned and stalked towards his own desk. Then, looking down at his empty coffee cup, he grimaced, "I'm gonna grab another coffee. There'd better not be a single piece of crumpled paper visible when I get back." He headed for the elevator, hiding his smirk as he left.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. They got called out to investigate the death of a young midshipman, but it appeared he had died in his sleep, the result of alcohol poisoning, brought on by the copious amounts of tequila he had imbibed the night before. Having nothing more to do until toxicology reports came in, they had headed back, determined to use the down time to put a dent in the mountains of paperwork waiting for them.

When five o'clock rolled around Abby bounced into the bullpen, hyped up on too much caffeine, and her own personal brand of frenetic energy. Dressed in yet another odd ensemble, this one featuring a short plaid skirt, boots with almost as much metal as leather, and a black t-shirt depicting a pink teddy bear sporting long pointed incisors she gleefully announced it was time to quit for the day and do something fun. Tony, Abby and McGee made plans to go to their favorite watering hole, in celebration of their first free weekend in a long time. After a great deal of fussing and pleading, Abby even cajoled Gibbs into coming for one drink.

McNally's was an old bar, having been established right after Prohibition by a pair of Irish immigrant brothers. It was still run by a McNally, although the present owner was three generations removed from the original McNallys. A long, magnificently carved wooden bar stretched the entire length of one side, old fashioned wooden stools drawn up close. A mix-match of dark wooden tables, and an equally uncoordinated collection of chairs dotted the rest of the dark room. A crowd was slowly gathering, everyone eager to toast the end of another work week. When Abby and the team walked in, the barkeeper, a large man with a head of reddish brown hair and a full beard, called out a greeting to them, calling them by name, in an Irish brogue that was more cultivated than cultural.

"Abby, my bonny lass, I see you've brought Timmy and Tony along with you tonight," he said, as he scurried out from behind the counter to press a kiss to the side of Abby's face. Looking over at Gibbs he asked, "And who might you be?"

"Patrick, this is the fabled Gibbs," Abby said by way of introductions. "Gibbs, meet bartender extraordinaire, Patrick McNally."

"At last, a chance to meet the legend," Patrick exclaimed, wiping his hands on the apron wrapped round his waist, and then extending out his right hand to Gibbs. "This lot here has told me a great deal about you, some of it even good," he joked, as he ushered them over to one of the few remaining unoccupied tables.

Gibbs just raised an eyebrow and pinned each of his companions with a penetrating glare.

The trio were rescued from Gibbs' silent admonishments by Patrick. "So, what'll it be? The usual, Guinness all around?"

As Tony, Abby and McGee nodded, Gibbs grunted, "Bourbon, neat."

"Bite your tongue laddie, I don't stock that American swill here." Patrick said, in pretend outrage.

"Irish whiskey then," Gibbs laughed.

"Done," Patrick nodded his approval, and headed to the bar to fill the order.

"So, I take it you all are regulars," Gibbs asked, once they were alone.

Tony launched in on a long winded story about how they had first discovered the bar, and Gibbs contented himself with sitting back and just listening. Every once in a while Abby would break in to correct or elaborate on something Tony had said, and before they knew it, Patrick was back, tray in hand. He set a full pint in front of Abby and the two agents, and then presented Gibbs with a clear glass, filled with an amber liquid.

"Three fingers of Bushmill's 21 Year Old, on the house, in honor of your first visit," he said, and then taking the remaining small glass off the tray, he lifted it up and said, "There are good ships, and there are wood ships, the ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships, and may they always be." With that, he tipped back his head and downed the shot, as the others all lifted their glasses to each other and took a sip of their drinks. Patrick stood and visited for a few more minutes, but finally a rush on the bar required him to go back and rescue the one remaining bartender.

Gibbs sat and listened to his younger colleagues chatting. Every once in a while Tony would look over at him and clarify the details on something that had just been mentioned, happy for his presence, and not really caring that Gibbs was not an active participant in the conversation. For his part Gibbs was content to watch the interaction among the three. The light touches Abby unconsciously bestowed on McGee, and his obvious enjoyment of said touches, told Gibbs that Rule Number Twelve was still being blithefully ignored. He envied the way Tony talked casually, teasing and light, knowing he didn't possess that ability. At one point, a lull in the conversation and a quick glance at the expectant expression on Tony's face told him that a question had been directly asked of him.

"Sorry, just woolgathering I guess. What did you say?" he asked.

"Abby just asked what you were going to do tomorrow, Boss," Tony answered nonchalantly, although his face revealed his own interest in the answer.

"Laundry, work on the boat," he said, and signaling that the subject was closed, "the usual."

"Right…" said Tony, covering the awkward pause that followed, since none of them had a clue what the usual comprised.

The conversation picked back up, moving to a discussion of the 'hinkiest' thing that had ever happened on a case, and everyone settled back in. When Patrick returned, offering another round, Gibbs used that as his cue to leave. Thanking Patrick for the drink, and cautioning the others not to drink to the point of stupidity, he waved his good byes and headed out. Tony, Abby and McGee stayed for another couple of hours and then said their goodbyes to Patrick, promising to return soon and attempt to bring Gibbs back with them. After watching McGee tuck Abby into a cab, and warning them not to do anything he wouldn't do, he headed off down the street, aiming for the movie rental store at the end of the block, determined to find something to entertain himself with for the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

Tony's ploy for self distraction had worked. After picking up some Chinese and taking it back to the apartment, he'd watched the first three episodes from the season four collection of _The Closer_ he'd rented. He loved the show, thought Kyra Sedgwick was brilliant, and even forgave the series for sympathetically depicting an FBI agent. He didn't bother trying to watch shows during their regular seasons, knowing his work hours were too unpredictable, and preferred to catch up on a show over the course of a weekend, liking the satisfaction of watching one episode after another, letting the story lines unfold in an unbroken fashion. At around 1:00 A.M., he had dragged his tired body off to bed, not bothering to set the alarm, and smiled as he thought over the day. It had been good; epic paper ball battle, case that didn't involve a murderer, drinks with Gibbs - scratch that - drinks with the team, and a good TV show. 'All in all, not too shabby,' he told himself, as he drifted off to sleep.

Waking up late, or at least what constituted late for him, since it was 8:30, he got up, and dragged on a set of sweats, stretched a bit, then headed out for a jog, hoping to get in at least five miles before his body fully woke up and demanded food and coffee. Tony ran to the park a few blocks away, and then cut over onto one of the trails created specifically for walkers and runners. This was his favorite spot to run; the trail he preferred took him through the woods, the trees providing a buffer to the noise from the city streets, and the shouts of joy from the children playing ball or tag on the expansive greenways. This trail was more difficult than many of the others, containing many uphill areas, and other runners tended to avoid it; he usually had it to himself. He could pretend he was far away from the urban sprawl of D.C., someplace where mountain streams rolled down the hills in the summer, forming pools of water, inviting and cool. He loved the way he could spot minute changes in trees and plants each week, chronicling the passing of time through observation. Even the air was different here, crisper and cleaner. Although he had absolutely no urge to leave the city behind, buy some land out in the middle of the woods, and live a hermit's life, he did revel in the few hours he spent here each week. He used it to center himself, to think about things more clearly, away from the distractions of his daily life. It was here he often got inspirations about an ongoing case, seeing something that had been overlooked, or coming up with a new strategy when an investigation stalled out. So today, as he ran, it came as no surprise to him when his thoughts turned to Cassie's case.

Even though he still listed her on the National Missing Persons Bulletin Board, he didn't really expect that she would ever be found alive and well, living under an alias. There had been no apparent reason for her to flee, and nothing to suggest hidden demons so terrible they were capable of forcing her to abandon her life. Her parents had sued the courts to declare her legally dead seven years after her disappearance, which had sent him into a rage. Parents should be the last bastions of hope, not the first to give up. He suspected it had a lot to do with the half million dollar insurance policy. He knew about that because he had looked into it, in the early days of the case, but after finding out about her parents' vast fortune, he had ruled it out as a possible motive. It wouldn't have been worth the risk for them. They didn't need another half million, although they certainly weren't above collecting it, when it became available. No, much as he hated to admit it, he had to agree with the Edwards; in all likelihood, Cassie was dead. But that didn't mean he could stop investigating. In fact, it made the whole thing more urgent for him. Someone was getting away with murder, and he was in the business of putting murderers behind bars.

When he had caught the case in Philadelphia, he hadn't had the resources available to him today. NCIS had access to almost every database that existed, and over the years, Tony had put most of those to use in trying to solve the case. He had run all of her friends, acquaintances and their families, her instructors, custodians, librarians, and Cassie's own family members through every criminal database imaginable. He knew about every parking ticket, possession fine for pot, DUI, bounced check, and shoplifting charge; but there was nothing that triggered a big red arrow that said, 'potential murderer here!' As these thoughts floated through his head, he was reminded that it had been almost a year since he had done that. A lot could happen in a year, he mused; maybe it was time to check again. Knowing that it could take a long time to run those searches, he decided to step up his date with Cassie. None of the team was going to be around today, so he wouldn't have to answer questions that made him uncomfortable, hating to admit to a past failure, or allow them a glimpse of what had become more than a minor obsession. 'Yep, today it is,' he told himself. With that decided, he put on a burst of speed, and pointed himself towards home.

One hour later, bathed, dressed, fed, and file folder in his backpack, he found himself leaning out of the car window and greeting Sam, the weekend watchman at the front gates of the Navy Yard.

"Hey Tony, didn't expect to see you today," Sam said, as he checked Tony's ID. Even though they had known each other for over five years, Sam never deviated from protocol. "Gibbs punishing you or something?" he asked.

"Nah, just have a bunch of paperwork to get done, and I don't want it all sitting there waiting for me on Monday morning. Not the best way to start a week. So, how's the missus? Did you ever take her to that fondue restaurant I told you about?" Tony asked, wanting to stay off any further discussion about why he was there on a Saturday.

"Sure did. You were right; scored myself big brownie points with that. She loved it. Don't know why. Cooking your own food at a restaurant? How's that any different than any other night of the week? But she thought it was romantic. Turned out good for us both, if you get my meaning," Sam said with an exaggerated wink.

Laughing, Tony said, "Loud and clear. Glad I could help you out, Sam My Man. Don't work too hard," then he repocketed his ID, and drove through the now open gate, waving a hand back at Sam as he pulled away, looking for the closest spot to park. He felt a twinge of regret as he did this, remembering his old '65 Mustang . Back when he still had it, he'd park as far away from every other car as he could, paranoid that someone would ding it with a car door or scratch it with a key, wanting to protect his baby. As he got out, he looked hard at his new Mustang. It was sleek, a beautiful shade of dark green, fully equipped, plenty of power under the hood - every thing you could want in a car - but yet he couldn't work up too much enthusiasm for it. The car was nice, but it lacked personality, was too cookie cutter - anyone with enough money could buy this car. Not like his old 'Stang. 'Guess I'm just a softie for the classics,' he told himself, and smiled at that thought as he slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed into the building.

Once he got up to the bullpen, he turned on his computer and dragged out the folder, thumbing through the pages until he found his crib notes sheet. Several years ago he had compiled a list of the names of every person he felt was worth keeping track of, to save him from having to go through all of his notes each time he needed their names. Over the years he had memorized the list, but always referenced it when running database scans, not willing to risk overlooking a single name. Pulling out a pencil from his middle desk drawer, he put light check marks by each name as he feed them into the search engines. Half an hour later he was done; now he just had to wait for the results to come in, knowing that could take a while. With nothing better to do, he pulled up his email and spent some time catching up on his correspondence, periodically checking to see how his scans were going. When he had answered every single email he'd been ignoring that week, he moved to the internet, and spent some time surfing his favorite sites. Finally, out of boredom, he decided to do web searches on some of the people involved in Cassie's case.

He googled Felicity Salerno (nee Gomez), just to check up on her. Google directed him to her Facebook page, where he read that she was the president of the PTA at her son's school, and that her five year old daughter had recently started taking gymnastics. 'Well, that was fascinating,' sarcasm dripping off his silent words. At one point in her bio she gave a shout out to all her old friends from Temple, but other than that brief reference, you would never have known she had been anywhere near the place that Cassie disappeared from, never have known that tragedy had once touched her life. 'God, what did he expect her to do,' he asked himself, 'post a memorial shrine in Cassie's honor?' Disgusted with himself, he moved on.

Next he typed in the boyfriend's name, James Randolph Douglas+ 32 years old. Surprisingly enough, one of the first entries that popped up in the search directed him to _The Washington Post_ website. 'Now that's interesting,' he thought, as he clicked on the link, and found himself on the obituaries page. Scanning down the page he saw it, "Sarah Maria Douglas, 30, housewife, died October 14th, 2009". That was ten days ago. Well, at least he could be sure this was the right James Douglas. He had read about Douglas' marriage two years ago, and made a note of it in the file, adding Sarah's name to his ever expanding list. The obituary gave little information, other than who had survived her - her parents, two siblings, and her husband, James Douglas; when the funeral was; and where to send condolences. There was no mention of cause of death, and no suggestion that memorial donations be given to some medical facility or medical research group, which was common when a younger person died. Tony wondered why the obituary was in a local paper; last he knew, the Douglas' had been living in Trenton, New Jersey.

It really bothered him that there was no cause of death listed, so he turned back to the computer, and typed in her name, age, and Washington, D.C. As he suspected, the first article the computer offered was the obituary. The only other citation was a link to a newspaper in New Jersey, announcing her marriage to James Douglas. 'Well that's strange,' he thought. Thirty year old women didn't just drop over dead; there were always extenuating circumstances, and those usually make the papers. He had more than half expected to find another newspaper citation covering a car accident or similar tragedy. On a whim, he called up NCIS' link with METRO, and typed in Sarah's full name, leaning closer when the computer revealed a case file number.

"What're you doing here, DiNozzo?" Gibbs' voice demanded. Gibbs had expected to find him, thanks to Sam's warning at the gate.

'Damn!' Tony thought, stopping just seconds before he had pulled up the police report.

"Just reading my email, Boss. Internet connection at home's down, and was expecting an email from a friend about plans for tonight. Don't want to miss out on something, you know." Kicking himself as he remembered rule number one on lying, 'Keep it simple'. He clicked his mouse to restore the desktop on his computer, not wanting to risk Gibbs getting a look at what he was doing.

"Something wrong with your phone, too?"

'Double Damn!' "Good point, Boss! Didn't even think of that. Um…..What are you doing here?" Good, counter attack was always good.

"Forgot something," Gibbs said evasively, as he stepped behind his desk and sat down, studying Tony, who was now gracing him with his most innocent expression. Too bad it looked a little forced.

"Senior moment, Boss," Tony cautioned saucily, deciding he'd rather face Gibbs' wrath than admit to the whole Cassie thing.

"Watch it, DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked, and for a few moments Tony just sat there, blinking at Gibbs, seemingly frozen in place. 'Okay, something is very hinky here,' he thought. Tony was rarely at a loss for words, and he was definitely hiding something. Even as he thought that, he could see Tony visibly recovering.

"Always do, Boss; always do," Tony sassed.

'Well, at least that was the truth,' Gibbs told himself. Tony was always being careful on some level; and that thought bothered him. Even at his silliest, Gibbs always felt there was a part of Tony that was removed, calculating the effect of everything he did or said. It was one of the things about Tony that fascinated him, he acknowledged wryly.

"Well, aren't you gonna call?" Gibbs asked, gesturing to the phone.

"Uh… yeah," Tony chuckled, giving a small rueful shake of the head. "Might as well finish going through my email first, though, since I'm here. You know, no time like the present, blah, blah, blah." 'Leave,' he was shouting silently, 'leave already!' He was beyond impatient to read the police report on Sarah Douglas.

Holding Tony's eye for just a second, Gibbs sighed silently, and gave up. Tony wasn't going to let himself be trapped into revealing too much, like that idiot Burns did the other day; he was too smart. Probably wasn't anything big anyway. For all he knew, Tony was here, setting up some practical joke intended to push McGee's buttons. Reaching into his desk, he tried to covertly retrieve his reading glasses, watching Tony out of the corner of his eye, more than a little chagrinned when he saw Tony smirk.

"Say anything and die, DiNozzo," he threatened, as he gave up all pretenses, and stood to leave, shoving the glasses into the pocket of the black overcoat he had never taken off, and moving out from behind his desk.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Boss," Tony answered, his relief in Gibbs' imminent departure restoring his equilibrium. "Not that you would remember it in a day or so, anyway. Senior moments and all," he couldn't resist teasing, grinning for real when Gibbs' only response was a whack to the back of his head.

"Have a good time, DiNozzo," Gibbs said as he headed for the elevator, and Tony sat wondering what he was referring to, as he watched Gibbs get in.

As soon as the elevator doors had closed, Tony spun his chair back around to face the computer. Just a few clicks, and he was in. Case #487201, Sarah Maria Douglas - Deceased. Scanning the report, Tony discovered that she had died from an apparent suicide. The report stated that her husband had returned home from work to find her lying in bed; unable to rouse her, he'd called 911. The EMTs had not been able to revive her either, and she had been transported to the hospital, where she was declared dead on arrival. Toxicology reports showed a fatal dose of barbiturates in her bloodstream, and the police had found an empty bottle of pills next to the bed, in her home. When questioned, the husband had admitted that she had been a little down lately, but that it hadn't seemed bad enough to worry about. Finding nothing suspicious in the autopsy, the coroner had ruled it a suicide.

Now that was interesting, Tony thought. Loosing your ex-girlfriend could be written off as carelessness; but loosing your wife, too, began to look like a pattern - and Tony loved patterns. Pulling a blank sheet of paper out of his printer, and grabbing his pencil, he began to write. He made note of the investigating officers' names and precincts, the name of the coroner, and the phone number and address for James Douglas. He could barely contain the excitement that rushed over him; he was breathing too quickly, and he felt a little dizzy. Something in his gut told him this was the break he'd waited for all these years.

He needed to make a plan, he told himself, needed to figure out how to go about investigating this. He wanted to talk to the LEO's and the coroner, but didn't know how he was going to explain his interest without setting off a jurisdictional pissing match. He also needed to know more about Douglas, like what in the hell he was doing in D.C

Reaching for Cassie's file, he pulled out all of his notes on Douglas, and sat back to review what he already knew. James Randolph Douglas came from an upper middle class family in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, father a successful business owner and mother a housewife. He had two younger sisters, to whom he didn't seem to be close. He'd gone on to law school at the University of Pennsylvania, after graduating with honors from Temple. From there, he'd taken a job with a small firm in Trenton, New Jersey, which was the last location Tony had for him. He had done some digging on Douglas, pretending to be a prospective employer, and had gotten positive, if a bit reserved, recommendations for him. Everyone had agreed that he was bright and ambitious. They complimented his work, and asserted that he would be a success at whatever he chose to do. What had been universally lacking in any of the recommendations was any mention of what Douglas was like as a human being. No one said what a great guy he was, or how easy he was to work with, or even that he would be an asset for what ever firm hired him. Tony had chalked that up to the smart-alecky attitude he had taken offense to way back in Philadelphia, figuring a tiger couldn't hide its stripes. Now he found himself wondering if it was more than that. Had he missed something eleven years ago? After shoving the papers back in the file, which he placed in his backpack, he put on the old, brown leather bomber jacket he had draped over the back of his chair when he had gotten in. Then, grabbing the sheet with Douglas' address on it, he headed for the stairs. It looked like he really needed to know more about Douglas, and the best way to start would be by checking out where he was living now.

Once he got to the car, he tossed the backpack in the back, and sped towards Douglas' place. When Tony had seen the address, he had recognized where Douglas lived. It was one of the few almost suburban areas left in the city proper, featuring tree lined boulevards which sheltered large, graceful old homes. A house in this area could go for well over seven figures. 'Obviously Douglas was doing okay for himself,' he thought. Tony slowed down as he approached the neighborhood. A car driving too fast would not be appreciated, and would be remembered. It was a Saturday, kids were out riding bikes or tossing a football, and adults were tending to their yards, raking away the fallen leaves and the remaining debris of summer, preparing for the onset of winter. Tony drove down Douglas' block, watching the numbers, until he spotted the house. There was no one out on the beautifully manicured lawn. The house itself, was a large red brick colonial, with over-sized double doors, painted white and a pillared portico. White shutters framed the numerous windows on both stories. The house screamed money and elegance, and Tony was sure it had been bought to be a very visible status symbol, since it provided far more space than just two people needed, and the Douglas' had not had any children. Deciding to risk one more look, he circled the block. This time he was looking for possible hiding places, should he decide it was necessary to come back, once it was dark, for a closer look. Even as he thought that, he knew he would be back. He had far too many questions, and Douglas might well be the key to answering them. After finding several potential observations spots, he pointed his car towards home, anxious to plot his next step.

While Tony was at home, devising excuses for talking to the investigative detectives on Sarah Douglas' case, Gibbs was in his basement, sanding away on his boat. Tony had been right yesterday, Gibbs really was a master craftsman, and right now, one of his creations was bothering him. Tony's behavior in the office this morning had been just a little to the left of center. If it had been anyone other than Tony, he would have written it off, but he had learned a long time ago that any sign of unease from Tony was probably just the tip of the iceberg; and Gibbs had been sure that Tony had been uncomfortable. His smile had been just a fraction too wide, his jokes just a trifle forced. Tossing the sanding block onto his workbench, Gibbs sighed, as he began to brush the sawdust off his jeans and sweatshirt. He wasn't in the mood for working on the boat anymore, and decided he might as well head back to the office and start working on the performance evaluations he had been putting off. Maybe if he got them done this weekend, Leon would get off his back. Climbing up the stairs, two at a time, he stopped at the hallway closet, pulling out a light weight parka, which he shrugged into, and grabbed his car keys from the small table by the door. He was all the way down his front walk when something struck him. Turning around, he went back into the house, opened the closet door again, and reached into the pocket of his overcoat. Pulling his reading glasses out, he could hear Tony say, "Senior moment, Gibbs," and smiling to himself, he headed off to the Navy Yard.

When he got up to the bullpen, he hung his jacket on the hook, and pulled out the accursed stack of files he had stowed in a desk drawer, having refused to look at them every day. Sliding on his glasses, he flipped open the first one, and saw that it was Ziva's. Not willing to think about what had happened with her, or to even acknowledge her continued absence, he closed the file and moved it to the bottom of the pile. McGee's was next. He looked over the summary of McGee's accomplishments this past year. There was no denying that Tim was beginning to come into his own. He still had a ways to go, but he was no longer the meek, little computer geek, he had been a few short years ago. Gibbs was sitting back in his chair, staring into space as he thought about McGee's progress, when he noticed that Tony had gone, leaving his computer still running. That was just the little kind of thing that Vance would notice, and it would set off a tirade about Tony's carelessness and immaturity.

Gibbs got up and went over to Tony's desk, intending to shut down the computer. When he moved the mouse to wake up the monitor, there was one of those message boxes, declaring that the searches were done, and the results ready for review. Unable to resist, Gibbs clicked on the box, and was surprised when about three dozen names popped up, with information on each name from all of the major databases NCIS used. A quick scan of the names told Gibbs nothing; he'd never heard of any of these people. He looked over the information provided by the databases, finding nothing of any real interest. Without really thinking about it, Gibbs pressed print, and watched as Tony's printer spit out hard copies of all the information he had just read. Not really knowing what to do next, he closed the window, and proceeded to shut down the computer. As the screen blinked to black, Gibbs sat in Tony's chair thinking. 'What was this all about? Just what in the hell are you up to, DiNozzo?' he wondered silently.


	3. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

Tony knew he was going to have to talk to the officers who had been called to the Douglas' to investigate Sarah's death. He wanted to know how closely they had looked into the case; had they really investigated or just accepted the suicide at face value. He needed to know the kind of information not available in an official report, like how had the husband seemed – sad, shocked, indifferent, or evasive. He had to ask them if there was anything that felt off to them, even if they couldn't put their finger on what. The problem was, he couldn't figure out how to do any of that, and keep it under the radar. He'd been a regular cop; he knew all about the resentment caused by a fed asking questions, and the questions he wanted answered weren't the easy ones. They were the kind that could be interpreted as suggesting that the cops hadn't done a good job, that they had missed things. The last thing he wanted to do was piss them off enough to complain to their captain. That would result in a call to NCIS, and Tony didn't want to have to explain why he was asking questions, particularly since he had no official reason to be looking into the case. Until he could figure that out, he'd just have to settle for getting a better handle on Douglas.

Tony was sitting at his desk, staring absently out his window at the street below, as he pondered his dilemma. Although his eyes saw the people passing by, some walking dogs, some just out for a stroll, and others hurrying to a specific destination, his brain wasn't really registering. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs, he stood and stretched. Then he looked at his watch, 2:00 p.m. It wouldn't be dark for hours. 'What the hell am I going to do for the next six hours,' he wondered. He thought about going back to the office, where he could pull up the financial records on Douglas; that would tell him who he was working for now. Then he remembered what had happened this morning, with Gibbs. That had been close, too close. If Gibbs had come around from the other side, he would have been able to see Tony's computer. No, the office was going to have to wait until late tonight, after he'd been back to the house, when he knew the bullpen would be empty. There was no way he was going to risk running into someone else with nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon. 'Now that was a depressing thought,' he mused, realizing he had just described himself.

He looked around his apartment for something to do while killing time. He'd mixed old and new when furnishing it, creating a quirky, eclectic environment. The new pale cream leather sofa had a jewel toned antique Amish quilt draped over the back, with two taupe vintage 1950's club chairs sitting at ninety degree angles from either end. His top of the line entertainment system and television sat on, and were nestled under and around, an old, ebony trestle table he had snagged off the curb on garbage day, his first year in the city. Old barrister bookcases, stained almost black, stuffed with his collection of books, DVD's and CD's, lined the wall dividing the kitchen from the main room. An old grayed steamer trunk had been pressed into service as a coffee table, controllers and hand held games littering its top. The wide planked oak floor boards of the living room were covered by a large, deep brown rug, made from soft wide strips of leather hooked into the canvas backing. Framed prints hung on the wall, equally divided among vintage movie posters and Chagall and Toulouse Lautrec paintings, their vivid colors providing relief from the neutrals of the furnishings. Most people who saw the apartment were usually surprised; having expected Tony's tastes to run towards glass, chrome and black leather. Those that truly knew Tony, however, and that was a very small, exclusive group, understood that the apartment was the perfect expression of Tony's personality. The apartment highlighted his love for nice, new things, but also showed an unwillingness to discard the old. As Tony had observed himself, earlier, it showcased an appreciation for 'the classics.'

Yet, as he looked around, nothing caught his interest. He looked over at the television, but knew he didn't have the patience right now to watch more episodes of The Closer. His computer and Xbox system held no appeal. He couldn't even make himself sit and review the file folder again. That was old news; for the first time in years he had something new to follow up on, and he couldn't make himself retrack the worn paths covered in the papers in the file. He thought briefly about calling Abby, and seeing what she was up to, but the fear of not being able to make an escape by 8:00 stilled his hand. Finally, close to exploding with pent up anticipation, he hurried to the bedroom, dragged a duffle bag out of his closet, and threw a set of work out clothes, tennis shoes, and socks into it. He then headed back to the living room, grabbed his jacket off the sofa, and headed for the gym, hoping to find a hard hitting game of pick up, confidant that a couple of hours of strenuous exercise would help him think more clearly.

While Tony sweated on the basketball court, Gibbs sat in the bullpen, sweating to finish the performance reports. His forward momentum had ground to a halt when he got to Tony's file. His usual descriptions of Tony's hard work, creative thinking, competency, and loyalty didn't seem enough this year. Looking back over everything that had happened - Tony's banishment to sea after Jenny's death and his slow recall, which Gibbs knew he viewed as a punishment, the debacle with Agent Lee, and the staged infiltration of a fake top secret facility, which left both Tony and Ziva battered and bruised, and Vance's handing him over to the Israelis like a sacrificial lamb – Gibbs realized it was a wonder Tony was still there. He knew that if this had happened five years ago, Tony would have cut and run long ago. Somewhere along the way, Tony had grown up. Of course, his insecurities hadn't evaporated over night, and it was still possible to hurt him deeply. God knows, he was still capable of moments of childlike abandon, as evidenced by yesterday's escapade with the paper balls, and he still strutted and preened like a peacock; but at his core, Tony was truly a man now, rooted by commitment and responsibility. There was absolutely no one else Gibbs would rather have watching his six, and his sudden realization that if Tony were to leave, he wasn't sure that he would want to continue, left him stunned and slightly confused. When had Tony crawled that far under his skin, and how had he not noticed?

Finally, after writing that it had been a "challenging year for Agent DiNozzo, who had conducted himself with dignity, leadership, and considerable skill" and stating that, "he was to be commended," assigning Tony a series of tens in the 'rate your agent' section, Gibbs was done. Slipping the completed evaluations into an interoffice mail envelope, and writing Vance's name on it, he walked to the secretary's desk and deposited it in the outgoing mail basket. Deciding there was nothing more he wanted to do at the office today, he slid on his jacket, preparing to leave. On impulse, he grabbed the pages of information he had printed from Tony's computer. As he stood there, he scanned over the lists one more time, looking for anything that would jog his memory, helping him to put the searches in context. Finding nothing, he put them in a folder, which he bent and slid into the inside pocket of his jacket, he left for home.

Tony spent an hour in the weight room, then went to the basketball courts, where he was quickly drafted into a take-no-prisoners pick up game. Quite a few of the players knew each other, had played ball in college, and the game was rough and fast. Tony was a perennial favorite; the other players appreciating his skill but liking even more the way he joked and kept things light, even as he rushed, pushed and drilled the ball down the court. Two hours later, his clothes sticking to him, his skin washed with sweat, Tony waved his goodbyes and headed home to shower, change and grab a quick bite before heading back to Douglas' house.

After cleaning up, Tony dressed himself in snug black jeans, a black turtleneck, black socks and black sneakers. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he laughed when he realized that he looked like an add for 'Cat Burglars 'R Us', all that was missing were a face mask and gloves. Taking himself into the kitchen he made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which he ate while leaning against the counter. Once finished, he grabbed the milk cartoon out of the refrigerator, opened it, and took several, long thirsty drinks, before recapping it and placing it back in the frig. Looking at his watch again, and seeing that it was 7:45, he went back into the living room, got out a black windbreaker, a pair of black leather driving gloves, grabbed the bag he had prepared earlier, and went to his car. As he drove, he considered the spots he had mapped out earlier. There had been a tall, sculpted boxwood hedge surrounding Douglas' house. If he could get over to it unobserved, its dense foliage would provide good cover, making it the perfect place to hide while observing what was happening in the house. Tony didn't really know what he was going to learn by watching Douglas. He just felt the need to get a better handle on the man, and short of talking to him, he didn't know how else to do it.

When he got close to Douglas' neighborhood, he parked the car in the lot of a restaurant he had seen that morning, knowing it would blend in, and no one would question its presence. He put his phone on silent, and pulled a walkman out of the bag he had packed earlier, made sure it was turned off, and put the ear buds on, and the player in his pocket. Then, grabbing a pair of binoculars out of the bag, 'just in case' he thought, and wrapping the strap around his neck, he slid them under his jacket, and took off down the street. The house was three blocks away, and Tony schooled his pace as he walked, swinging his arms slightly as he quietly hummed to himself, wanting to look like a neighbor out for an evening stroll. As he approached Douglas' house, he covertly looked around. Lights were streaming out the windows of the surrounding homes, but he saw no people at the windows, or out in their yards. Making a quick dash to the side of Douglas' house, he squeezed in behind the hedge, pressing against the brick facing of the building, and crouching low to conceal himself.

Tony squatted there for several minutes, listening hard. He needed to make sure no one had seen him and either called the police, or come over to investigate. After about fifteen minutes had passed, with no one appearing, he decided it was safe to move. Worming his way down the hedge, body hugging the side of the house, he got to a large, floor to ceiling window. He paused for a moment, then lifted his head just enough to see in. He found himself looking at a study lined with book shelves, a massive walnut desk sitting at one end, holding a laptop and stacks of paper. There was a burgundy leather wingback chair adjacent to the desk, a small side table butted up against it, and a green shaded floor lamp behind. Ensconced in the chair, talking on the phone, sat Douglas.

Douglas was laughing as he talked, absentmindedly flipping through the newspaper he held on his lap. Occasionally he would pause, clearly listening to what the person on the other end was saying, and then he would respond in an amused, animated fashion. He had aged since Tony had last seen him eleven years ago. His face, which had been blandly attractive as a boy, had rounded, swallowing his rather delicate features, making his mouth look like a dab of jam on a plump, yeasty dinner roll. The added facial weight diminished his already small eyes, and the receding of his dank, mouse brown hair lengthened his forehead, creating a disproportionate expanse, which further detracted from his eyes. Although Douglas was sitting, Tony could tell that he had let his body go soft, a result of too many hours in a desk chair, and too few in the gym. All of this combined to make him appear several years older than his actual thirty-two.

Eventually the call concluded, and he placed the receiver back on its base, then stood, setting down the paper, he walked over to a small dry bar, and poured himself several fingers of some amber liquor from a decanter. After taking a sip, allowing himself a second to savor the flavor, Douglas crossed over to the bookshelves and pulled a magazine off a shelf, which he carried back to the chair. Settling back down and placing the drink on the table, he lifted up the magazine and began to peruse it. Tony groaned when he saw the cover, Hustler. Douglas was flipping through the pages more rapidly now, clearly searching for something. When he got to what he was looking for, he stopped, turned the magazine to its side, and unfolded a page. 'Please let him just be planning to look,' Tony prayed to whatever gods were willing to listen. He had come wanting a sense of who Douglas now was, but there was a limit to how well he wanted to know him. Tony let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding, when Douglas folded the page back in, and turned the page. Finding an article that held his interest, he began to read. 'Probably the letters forum,' Tony thought, relaxing and preparing for a long night.

Douglas sat for the better part of an hour, reading and sipping on his drink. Finally he stood, picked up his glass, tucked the magazine under his arm, and reached over and turned off the lamp, throwing the room into darkness. Tony could see him move towards the study door, illuminated by the ambient light from the rest of the house. As Tony crept along the hedge, circling the perimeter of the house, the lights in the windows began to flicker out. Douglas was clearly shutting down for the night. Knowing there would be nothing more to observe, Tony worked his way to the backyard and crept out from behind the bushes. It was very dark in the yard, and the light in the sky from the city created a reddish gold halo which seemed to encircle the neighborhood, providing just enough light to see. He headed to the alley which bordered the back of Douglas' property, pulling out the ear buds again, and prepared to assume the role of a late night walker. Sauntering back to his car, one eye out for anyone who appeared too curious, he thought about what he had seen. Douglas certainly didn't strike him as a grieving widower. Clearly the loss of his wife had not left him emotionally crippled, 'and the bit with the magazine was just wrong,' Tony told himself. When he got to his car, he slid in, suddenly dead tired. Promising himself that he would get up early and head over to the office to run the financials on Douglas, long before anyone else would be likely be in, he drove himself home, drained both physically and emotionally.

As Tony dropped limply into his bed for the night, Gibbs was sitting on a chair in his basement, staring at the boat. He had stopped working on it over a half hour ago, and was now content to sit, sip on a bit of bourbon, and appreciate the efforts of his labor. As he looked at the boat, he let his thought wander back to Tony. He hadn't gotten the sense that Tony was bothered by anything recently. He could usually tell when Tony was in an emotional tizzy. The hi-jinks tended to intensify, and his bravado ramped up in equal measure. His clothes moved from being a fashion statement into a type of armor; his natural neatness suddenly bordering on fastidiousness. There had been none of that behavior lately. The paper ball war didn't really count, that was a recurring activity with his team. And yet, Tony had definitely been up to something this afternoon; Gibbs had the proof of it sitting in a folder on his kitchen table. 'If only I knew who the people on the lists were,' Gibbs thought. For the first time, Gibbs found himself wishing he had a computer and internet access at his house, for then he could do a search, using the names Tony had been researching. Vowing to do that tomorrow, Gibbs stood and headed for the stairs, turning off the light when he reached the top, plunging the boat into darkness.


	4. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:  
**

A loud, irritating buzzing burned through Tony's dreams, forcing him towards consciousness. Bringing the palms of his hands up to his face, and dragging them across his eyes in an attempt to help them to open, he realized the noise was his alarm. Groaning loudly, he rolled onto his left side and reached towards the nightstand to turn off the buzzer. Taking a second to savor the silence, he finally released a sigh, and then heaved himself upright. Looking over at the clock, confirming what he already knew, he saw that it was 4:30 a.m. He pushed himself off the bed and groggily stumbled to the bathroom. Splashing copious amounts of cold water on his face and cursorily brushing his teeth, he dragged himself back to the bedroom, and threw on the clothes he had discarded on the floor last night. 'Coffee! Must have coffee!' his body screamed at him, as he walked through the apartment, heading for the front door. Grabbing his keys and jacket, which he didn't even bother to put on, he headed to the car. After a brief detour through the drive-thru window at the all night McDonalds for coffee and a breakfast burrito, Tony was sitting at his desk by 5:00, rumpled, but awake.

As he was turning on his computer something tickled at his memory, but he couldn't seem to pin it down. Shrugging it off, he concentrated on the task at hand. Tying into NCIS' link with the IRS, Tony called up Douglas' tax returns for the last two years. In 2007, he had earned $154, 750. 'Not too shabby,' Tony thought, but he let out a whistle when he saw the 2008 return, $410,600. 'Well, that's a hell of a raise,' he said to himself. Punching in the command for a detailed report, Tony looked over the 2007 return more carefully. The majority of the money had been paid to him by Reynolds, Griswold, and Bryce, that was the New Jersey law firm mentioned in Douglas' wedding announcement, Tony remembered. The rest of the money had come from various investments and interest. Switching to the 2008 statement, Tony saw that R, G&B had only contributed $21,000 to Douglas' earnings. $377,000 of last year's money came from something called Wallace & Wynman. Reaching into a desk drawer, Tony pulled out a Yellow Pages. Thumbing to the section for attorneys-at-law, he let his finger trail down the listings until he found what he was looking for – Wallace & Wynman, with a notation alerting him to the ad found on page 126. Flipping a page, Tony found the advertisement for the firm, elegant and one quarter page long. The ad and all its copy suggested prestige and excessive billing rates. 'Well, looks like someone is upwardly mobile,' he mused to himself. Now he knew what Douglas was doing in D.C.; he'd switched jobs.

Sitting back in his chair, Tony tried to decide what his next step should be. 'Guess it's time to talk to the detectives,' he decided. Looking at the clock on the wall he saw that it was only 5:45. He'd go home, get cleaned up, and then see about calling the precinct. As he powered down his computer in preparation for leaving, he froze, abruptly realizing what had bothered him earlier. He'd never checked on the results of the database searches yesterday, having gotten so excited when he discovered the information about Douglas. As a matter of fact, he didn't remember turning his computer off, either, yet it had been shut down when he got in this morning. 'That's way past strange,' he thought, as he looked around nervously. There was no sign of anyone being in the bullpen, yet. As his eyes swept the office, they were suddenly drawn to Gibbs' desk. His 'spidey senses' instantly came alive. It occurred to him that Gibbs was the only one who knew he had been in yesterday, and even though he had left before Tony, that didn't preclude him from having come back later in the day. 'Would Gibbs have bothered coming over here to shut off the computer,' he wondered. 'Even worse, would Gibbs have looked at what was on the screen?' Tony couldn't remember how he had left the computer - had the desktop been up or had it been screening the progress of the searches? Leaning his elbows on the desk, he buried his head in his hands. 'What a mess!' he thought, as he pushed himself to his feet to leave. He hated not knowing what had happened. Well, he certainly wasn't going to ask Gibbs about it on Monday morning. He'd just have to wait and see if Gibbs brought it up. In the meantime, it gave him one more thing to think about, which was exactly what he didn't need. Now, he also had to figure out what he would say to Gibbs if questioned. 'Isn't that just perfect?' he asked himself, as he climbed into the elevator.

Gibbs was up by 5:30 a.m., just like every other day. After setting the coffee pot to brew, he took himself out the back door for his morning run. He'd been running daily since he was in high school. 'Life is a frigging circle,' he thought, as he stretched out, not wanting to pull a muscle. When he had started running, way back when, he ran about three to four miles a day. By the time he'd been in the Corp for a couple of years, he didn't even think hard about a ten mile run. Now, years later, he was back to three or four miles. 'Wonder if that means I'm as fit as a seventeen year old?' he teasingly asked himself, and then realized that had been just the kind of joke Tony would have made. Shaking his head in disbelief, he started off. Gibbs set a steady, even pace as he jogged through the neighborhood. Gone were the days of six minute miles, but he prided himself on being able to keep a steady tempo, his last mile never being much slower than his first. He knew he was in excellent shape; his yearly physicals attested to that fact, and he wasn't displeased when he looked in the mirror. He could still take on men half his age, and nobody on the team, including Tony, could best him in hand to hand.

When Gibbs got back to his house after his run, he immediately poured himself a cup of coffee, taking time to savor it as he drank. In his head, he began to make out a schedule for the day. He needed to get cleaned up, and then he planned to go get some breakfast. Then, since he was already going to be out, he might as well go over to the Navy Yard and see what he could find out about the people on Tony's list. He was certainly spending a lot of time in the office for a free weekend, it occurred to him. Not that he really minded. He worked such long hours usually, that he had fallen out of the habit of cultivating hobbies and friends outside of work. When he had been married, he hadn't needed to think about that. His various wives always had something they wanted him to do, and most of his spare time had been spent in a variety of manual labor tasks around the house, such as digging a garden in the backyard, raking and mowing, painting a room a new and improved color, or the even less glamorous chores, such as fixing a leaking toilet or sink. Of course, that had been a long time ago. He still did some of those things, 'mostly the least pleasant of them,' he admitted wryly, noting that toilets and sinks still plugged up and leaked, needing repair, even without a wife there to point it out.

He helped himself to another cup of coffee, wondering briefly about what his team did when they weren't at work. He knew about some of their activities from listening to their chatter. Abby was an electrician for Habitat for Humanity, and then there were her nuns, of course, with whom she had a weekly bowling date. From his observations the other night, Gibbs also knew that she clearly spent time with McGee outside of the office, doing things it was better he didn't know about. McGee had his online games and everyone at NCIS knew about McGee's writing. The scene Tony had staged when he first found out had been the stuff legends were made of; they had come in one day, to discover stacks and stacks of books piled up around McGee's desk, the top book on each pile being a copy of McGee's _Deep Six: The Continuing Adventures of L.J. Tibbs_. An old Persian rug had been placed under the desk, and an antique green shaded banker's lamp sat upon the desk's surface. Pads of yellow lined paper were spread out across the desk top, with pencils placed randomly around. The computer had been removed, and in its stead sat an ancient typewriter. On the front of the desk a huge sign had been hung, which read, "Thom E. Gemcity, World Famous Author, Book Signing at 10:00 a.m." Tony had also sent an email out to all employees, announcing the impending event. The only thing that had saved McGee from being teased by the mob that morning, had been the fact that they had caught a case at 9:15, and were out of the office for the rest of the day.

That memory triggered more thoughts of Tony. What did he do in his off time? Gibbs knew he had an active social life; they had all been regaled with the accounts of his various escapades. Of course, with Tony it was usually difficult to tell just how much was fact, and what was fiction. At least some of his time must be spent watching movies, that would be the only way he could stay supplied with the endless film references that were always at his fingertips, just waiting to be used at the most inappropriate times. Apparently, he also killed time by running random searches through the NCIS databases, he told himself, refocusing on the reason he was going into the office on a Sunday morning; and as he headed to the bathroom to shower, he found himself wondering when Tony had become his own little obsession.

When Tony was cleaned, fed and dressed for the day, it was still too early to call over to METRO. Suddenly something occurred to him. Going to the closet in the hall, he began digging for something he had buried in the back. After grunting out a satisfied, "Ah hah!" he emerged, a large chalkboard in one hand, and a box of school chalk in another, relics of a long ago decorating idea. Carrying them into the living room, he cleared off the top of the steamer trunk and placed the chalk board on it. He then went over to the desk, and grabbed the blue file folder, which he brought over to the sofa. Sitting, he pulled out a piece of chalk and began to write. At the far left side, in the upper corner, he wrote:

**Cassie Edward, 20 - Missing (Cause Unknown) - Last seen at library, Fri. 4/19/98 -No official suspects**

He flipped through his notes in the folder and then, several inches below her name and information, he added:

**James Douglas, 32 - broke up with victim 3/98 - law school 99-02 - employed NJ law firm, 02-08 - Married Sarah Maria Jones 11/07 - New job in D.C 3/08-present? - Wife commits suicide 10/14/09 (reason unknown)**

Sitting back, he studied what he'd written, and felt an old familiar wrenching in his gut. It wasn't fair that there was so little written after Cassie's name and so much after Douglas'. Looking over the information, he realized that he had listed Cassie's age as twenty, and Douglas' as thirty-two. Well, he guessed that was pretty accurate. To him, Cassie would always be a college junior, the embodiment of the photographs contained in the file folders, friendly but shy, neglected by those she loved. It also seemed to give a visual confirmation to his fear that Cassie had not lived to age past twenty. He stared at the blackboard. He hadn't created an old fashioned crime board since leaving the Baltimore PD, and he had forgotten how it helped you to see the facts of a case with crystalline clarity. Having the information written out gave more urgency to Tony's need to find out more about what Edwards was like today and why his wife  
had committed suicide.

Opening up the file again, he pulled out the notes he had jotted down yesterday, when reading the case file on Sarah Edwards. There were two detectives listed, a Det. Charles Schafer and a Det. Daniel Greene. Pulling out his cell phone, he looked at the time display, 8:15. He decided to try calling them, not really expecting either of them to be there on a Sunday, but needing to do something that moved him forward on his investigation. Punching in the number for Det. Schafer, he was not surprised when the call went to voice mail. After leaving his name and number, and asking for a return call, he tried the other cop. Det. Daniel Greene answered on the third ring. Tony was so surprised it took him a moment to realize there was a live human being on the other end of the phone.

"Det. Greene......................Hello, anyone there?"

"Um, yeah, sorry. I was just surprised to catch you on a Sunday," Tony said, to excuse the long pause.

"Then why'd you call me on a Sunday, and who the hell are you?" Greene demanded grumpily.

'This was certainly starting well,' Tony thought. "I'm Special Agent Tony DiNozzo from NCIS," he managed, as he tried to get his head back in the game.

"And to what do I owe the _pleasure_ of a call from NCIS, _Agent_ DiNozzo?" Greene asked, his voice steeped with false delight.

"I'm calling about one of your cases," Tony answered, "a suicide, Sarah Douglas?"

"Yeah, I know the one. What's NCIS' interest in that? No naughty or dead sailors there," Greene groused.

'Well, this is it,' Tony realized. 'What're you going to say, Tony?' he asked himself.

"I'm interested in it because of a cold case," he said and then paused for a second while he reached a decision. Greene apparently felt no need to answer, because there was no sound on either end of the call, until Tony continued. "And actually, it isn't a NCIS case; it's an old case from the Philadelphia P.D."

"What, they don't pay you enough over at NCIS, you gotta moonlight with the Philly P.D.?" Greene snorted.

'Great, a wise guy!' Tony said silently to himself. Then, aloud he answered, "Nah, too long a commute. This case dates back a few years, back to when I was on the force in Philly."

"So why are you still working it?" Greene pushed.

"Look, it's complicated," Tony said. "How about you let me buy you some breakfast and I'll explain it all to you?" hoping that Greene wouldn't be able to pass up a free meal, and anxious to have a little time to decide how he wanted to play this.

"I can always eat. Diner on the corner of Avenue B and Jefferson, forty five minutes. Bring your wallet," Greene ordered, just before he hung up.

"Charming," Tony responded to the dial tone buzzing in his ear. Shutting his phone, he grabbed his jacket and keys, and went out the door, heading for a diner at the corner of Avenue B and Jefferson.

8:30 a.m. found Gibbs once again sitting at his desk in the bullpen. 'Glad we had the weekend off,' he thought, 'I'm really enjoying the change of scenery,' as he pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, which he set on the desk next to the print outs from Tony's computer. Looking at the top page of the print out, he typed 'Annabel Morningstar' into the computer and pressed enter. The computer spit out seventeen possible hits, eleven of which were at . Deciding these were his best bets, he quickly scanned the various entries. As it turned out, Annabel Morningstar was a psychology professor at Temple University, who, according to the various articles he had read, published profusely. After briefly glancing at the other six pages the computer had offered, he discovered they didn't really talk about a person by that name – they just contained both of the words in the articles. Looking back at the print out, he saw that it cited a speeding ticket on July 7th, 2009 next to her name. Not knowing what that signified, he picked up his pen. On his pad of paper he wrote, 'A. Morningstar – professor – Temple U. – speeding ticket, 7/7/09', and put a check by her name on the print out.

The next name was Jonathan Thompson. Once again he fed that to the computer; this time, however, the computer offered up twenty six million possible hits! No way was he ever going to be able to tell which one was the right Thompson. Looking at the print out, he got no help when he saw that 'no record' was listed after the name. Looking down the list, he decided to only focus on unusual names for now.

The next one he tried was 'Humphrey Wallington'. When the computer offered only two possible hits for Wallington, he breathed a sigh of relief. Looking at the two web pages, he learned that Humphrey was apparently a librarian at Temple. The print out informed him that good old Humphrey had 25 outstanding parking tickets, shaking his head he made a note on the pad.

And so it went - for the next three hours. Gibbs got better at the searching as he went along. He learned that using the plus symbol between the first and last name narrowed his search down. He was also beginning to detect a pattern. When the search offered too many options, he tried typing in the name, adding the plus sign, and then either Pennsylvania, Philadelphia or Temple University. This often narrowed the possibilities down considerably, and allowed him to guess at which entry gave information on the correct person. When he finally reached the end, he had details on nineteen that he was reasonably sure were the ones Tony had been researching. Every one of them had some tie to Temple University. There were professors, the librarian, custodial staff, and eight alumni. Staring at the list, Gibbs wondered what the hell it meant. He knew it must be tied to Tony having been a cop in Philly, but he didn't know how.

Not sure how to proceed, he decided to make a list of the names he had not been able to track down, hoping that by isolating them he might see something he had missed. Even as he was writing out the list, the missing link jumped out at him. Of the seventeen remaining names, four of them had Edwards as a surname. As far as he was concerned, that was two more than could be considered a coincidence. Figuring they must be related somehow, he tried entering their names into the computer in various combinations. He hit pay dirt when he tried 'William + Cynthia Edwards', who were apparently a married couple from White Plains, New York. Adding this new information to his search criteria, he learned that the Edwards were very active in the social scene in New York; William Edwards was on several boards for different organizations and Cynthia was involved in innumerable charitable organizations. He found pictures of them, which revealed them to be an older couple, in their early to mid-sixties, attractive, and always well-dressed. Digging even deeper he learned that they had been married for thirty-four years, and had one child, a daughter named Cassie, who was deceased. Now why was an established married couple from New York on Tony's list, he wondered. On impulse, he put in the name Cassie Edwards – fourteen million hits. 'Damn it!' he silently cursed. Next, he tried, putting in her name and adding Temple University. Looking at the results, he knew he had found the key!

Thumbing through his rolodex until he found what he was looking for, he then picked up the phone and dialed. "Hello, this is Special Agent Jethro Gibbs, from NCIS. I'd like to speak with the sergeant on duty, please."

Walking into the greasy, run down diner, Tony immediately knew who Det. Greene was. Criminals weren't the only ones who could spot a cop at thirty paces. Greene sat in a booth at the rear of the diner, back to the wall and facing the door, a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. He wore a cheap grey sports jacket that had been old ten years ago and was in serious need of cleaning. His off-white poly blend dress shirt was opened at the neck and his blue striped tie hung loosely around it. His hair was salt and pepper, heavy on the salt, and the bags under his eyes gave silent tribute to long hours and little sleep. Tony would have placed him at about Gibbs' age, but he lacked Gibbs vitality. Even seated, Gibbs always gave the impression of heightened awareness, ready to leap into action at a slightest provocation; Greene looked wrung out. These comparisons reminded Tony of how extraordinary Gibbs was. Pushing that thought aside, aware that he could get lost in thoughts of Gibbs, he strode forward.

"Det. Greene, I presume," he smirked.

"No shit, Sherlock," came the reply.

'Well, apparently his brain isn't worn out,' Tony thought, as he scooted onto the seat opposite of Greene.

"So, have you already ordered?" Tony asked aloud.

"Didn't need to. They know what I get here," Greene answered. "Hey Tif, got another order here for you," he then called to the waitress standing at the counter. Looking at Tony again, he said, "Order first, talk later."

When 'Tif' sauntered over to the table, Tony ordered orange juice and some toasted whole wheat bread. Greene rolled his eyes in response, but refrained from commenting.

Once the waitress was gone, he looked at Tony and demanded, "Okay, tell me what this is about. Why are you interested in some bored housewife offing herself?"

On the drive over, Tony had decided to tell Greene at least some of the truth. He had gotten the impression that Greene would have a highly honed bullshit detector, and he didn't want to antagonize him by being caught in a lie. "Right now, I'm actually more interested in her husband, James Douglas," he said, hoping he wouldn't have to spell out everything.

Greene leaned forward, pinning Tony with his eyes. "What about him?" he asked, not giving anything away.

"I was wondering how he seemed, what he was like," Tony answered, still offering no real information.

"And that would be 'cause.....................?"

Tony looked over at him. Greene seemed content to play this little poker game indefinitely; but after eleven years, Tony had no patience left for games. He inhaled deeply and then slowly blew it out.

"Okay, here's the deal. Eleven years ago I was a baby detective in Philly. I caught this case, missing co-ed at Temple University. No one saw anything, no one knew anything. She never showed back up, and no body was ever found. My captain pulled me off it after two weeks, when the case dead-ended. I never had any good leads; hell, I didn't even have bad leads. Only thing I had was a gut feeling. She had this ex-boyfriend. The guy just felt wrong to me, but I could never find anything to substantiate that feeling. James Douglas is that ex-boyfriend," and Tony stopped there, waiting to see what Greene would say.

Greene had a little smirk on his face now. "So this has been eating at you all this time, huh?" he asked, watching Tony carefully, as if searching for a lie. When he saw Tony's eyes drop and the blush start to spread, his face softened a bit. "Hell kid, we all have a case like this. That one you just can't let go of; that wakes you up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. No point in getting embarrassed."

He paused there, as the waitress returned, laden down with a tray full of food. She set a large plate of eggs covered in salsa, hash browns, sausage and bacon in front of Greene, and then reached back up to the tray and handed him a plate with an English muffin on it. Tony was then given his toast and orange juice.

"So, how'd you find out about Sarah Douglas? Doing a periodic check on all your key players?" he guessed, knowing he was right from the expression on Tony's face. Not bothering to wait for confirmation, he continued.

"I didn't like the guy, pompous ass. Works for some high priced law firm on the Beltway. He's the kind of guy who doesn't think his shit smells, if you know what I mean. He seemed more worried about the press finding out about what happened, then the fact that his wife was dead; as if the press cares about some overpriced shyster and his wife. I can see why you didn't like him back then."

That's what Tony had wanted to know about Douglas. He knew his next questions would be pushing it. "So, what about the wife? How deep did you dig? Did everything seem on the up and up? Ever think it might not have been a suicide?" he asked, somewhat hesitantly, holding his breath.

Greene just looked, no expression showing, not answering the questions.

'Shit,' Tony thought, 'I went too far. He's going to close up.'

Suddenly, Greene just seemed to fold. Shaking his head a little, he started, "Look kid, you know how your captain pulled you off your case? Well, it wasn't much different for us. I didn't like the whole thing. Something felt off, but the coroner ruled it a suicide, and we didn't have anything to suggest it wasn't. By that time, me and my partner had three obvious homicides waiting for us, and we didn't have any choice but to move on." Greene looked almost ashamed of this admission.

"What bothered you?" Tony asked him.

"Well, there was the fact that she didn't have any alcohol in her system. Seemed like almost anytime someone swallows too many pills, they wash it down with too many drinks. So that bothered me," Greene admitted. Thinking about it, Tony had do agree.

"What were her stomach contents?"

"Just a bagel and some orange juice. That was a problem for me, too. Who eats breakfast, right before they kill themselves?"

"So, this happened in the morning?" Tony asked.

"Yeah. Husband came home after a morning of golf and found her unresponsive on the bed."

"Anything else bother you?" Tony pushed.

"She was dressed for the day, like she was going out or something. It just didn't seem to make sense to me. But just like you, I had to move on. No proof of a murder, no case."

"What drug was it?" Tony asked.

"Phenobarbital," came the reply. "She had a prescription for it, and it is sometimes used to treat anxiety. There was the empty prescription bottle by the bed and another on in the medicine cabinet. So when the husband said she had been having some problems lately, there wasn't much to question about that."

"Thanks, Greene. You've been real good about this," Tony said sincerely.

"What're you planning to do with the info, DiNozzo?" Greene asked, as he looked Tony over.

"Don't know yet. Just seems wrong to me that two women Douglas was associated with had something bad happen to them," Tony answered, already starting to think about his next step. He'd finished his toast while Greene had been talking. Taking the last sip of his orange juice, he reached into his wallet and pulled out some money and one of his business cards, setting them both down on the table. "If anything more comes up, will you give me a call?"

Greene palmed the card, and slid it into his jacket pocket as Tony was getting up. "Be careful, kid. If you're right, Douglas is dangerous. Make sure you watch your back," he warned, his voice dead serious.

For the first time since he had entered the diner, Tony plastered on his trademark grin, and said lightly, "Always do Greene. Always do. Thanks again. Take it easy." With that, he made his way back to his car.

Greene sat in the booth, watching Tony leave, his face closed and hard to read. Only the tapping of his finger on the table top revealed the worry he was feeling.


	5. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:  
**

Gibbs hated being put on hold, but that was exactly what the operator at the Philly P.D. had done. His only consolation was that there was no irritating muzak playing as he waited. Finally, he heard the phone click, and a husky voice that had smoked one to many cigarettes, said, "Sgt. Chang, how may I help you?"

"This is Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs from NCIS. I'm calling for some information on an old case of yours," Gibbs said, trying to be his most pleasant.

"What case and what do you want to know, Agent Gibbs?" Chang asked.

"I think it's a missing persons case, about a Cassie Mae Edwards, from 1998," Gibbs supplied.

"You think or you know?" Chang asked, unable to resist yanking a fed's chain.

"I know. Look, I need to know who the detective assigned to the case was, and if it was ever solved. That's all," Gibbs spit out, his patience strained almost to the breaking point.

"Okay, don't get yourself all riled up, give me a second to check the computer," Chang answered.

The clang that reverberated through the phone told Gibbs that the receiver had been placed on the desk. He let out his breath when he heard computer keys being punched. Then there was a slight dragging sound, and Chang was speaking into the phone again.

"Well, it's your lucky day, Agent Gibbs. The case actually made it into the computer system. Says here it's still an unsolved case. It's been shoved over to Cold Cases and a Det. Grube had been assigned to it."

"I need the name of the original detective, Sgt. Chang. Does the computer tell you that?" Gibbs asked, already knowing who it would be, now that he knew the case had never been solved.

"Yeah, hang on," Chang sighed. There was a small pause, and then he said, "Looks like it was a Detective Anthony DiNozzo. Never heard of him, must not be on the force anymore. Want me to check?"

"No, that won't be necessary," Gibbs said.

"Look what's this about? Do you guys have some info on this case?" Chang demanded.

"Nope, nothing like that. Thanks for your help," Gibbs said quickly, right before he hung up, not wanting to answer anymore questions.

Hanging the phone back up, Gibbs looked at his notes. 'So Tony was dredging up one of his old cases,' Gibbs thought. 'Wonder what got him going on that, and why this case is special?' Turning back to his computer, he called up the news article he had found that reported Cassie Edwards as missing. There wasn't much information there. He sat staring at the screen for a few minutes, and then tried typing in 'Cassie Edwards + White Plains.' This time he got a news article about graduating high school seniors and their college plans. According to the article, Cassie was going to Temple, where she intended to study Elementary Education. That wasn't too helpful, but the article had accompanying pictures, so now he had a face to attach to the name. Looking at her, Gibbs saw that she had been a pretty girl. She was obviously fair, and her smile was reserved, yet real. He could see how a girl like that could get under your skin. There was a fragility to her appearance, and he knew from experience that Tony always liked the underdog. That was all well and good, he mused, but it didn't answer the bigger question. What had got Tony back onto the case?

Knowing there was nothing more he could do right now; Gibbs shut down his computer and prepared to leave. This would have to keep until tomorrow, when he could try to get a read on Tony.

When Tony got back to his apartment, he went straight to the blackboard he'd left on the trunk in his living room. After pulling out a piece of chalk, underneath the information on James Douglas, he wrote:

**Sarah Maria Douglas (nee Jones), 30 - Married James Douglas 11/07 - died 10/14/09 - Ate breakfast that morning - Dressed for the day - Lethal dose of Phenobarbital - Had prescription for the medicine - Death ruled a suicide  
**  
He had wanted to get everything he'd learned from Greene down while it was still fresh. Satisfied there was nothing else to record, he sat back and studied the board. He had to agree with Greene, the suicide just didn't add up; there were too many unanswered questions. 'The fact that she had a prescription for the drugs was a problem,' he worried. The minute he thought that, his eyebrows knitted together. 'What was it Greene had said? She had another bottle of the pills in the medicine cabinet?' he wondered. That didn't make sense to Tony. Why would you have two bottles of the same prescription? Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. Thumbing over to his call list, he found Greene's number, and pressed dial.

"Det. Greene," the voice on the other end barked.

"Greene, it's Tony DiNozzo," Tony said.

"Miss me already, kid? You know, you could quit monkeying around with those cowboys over at NCIS and come play with us, do some real police work. METRO'd be glad to have you," Greene said, only half kidding.

"Appreciate the offer," Tony said. "But I think I'll stay where I am for now. It's become kind of a habit at this point. You know how nasty withdrawal is," Tony joked back.

"Whatever, kid," Greene answered. "So, what'cha need?"

"Do you still have pictures of the evidence from the Douglas scene?" Tony asked.

"Yeah, haven't turned the file over yet. It's still in my desk drawer."

"Would you mind looking and seeing if you can read the name of the prescribing doctor on the pill bottle for me?" Tony asked.

"Sure, no problem," Greene said, and Tony could hear him moving around. "Wanna tell me why, though?" Greene asked, as he dug out the folder and leafed through the photos until he found the ones of the prescription bottle.

"I just got a wild hair and I want to check on something. If it pans out, I promise to let you know," Tony said, hoping Greene wouldn't push it. He didn't want to confess to what he was going to check out. He liked Greene, and Tony knew Greene would beat himself up for missing this. It probably wouldn't lead to anything anyway, so there wasn't any point in making the detective feel bad for no reason.

"Dr. Franklin, number's 703-652-9840," Greene told him, as he tried to decide whether to push Tony.

"Thanks Det. Greene," Tony said, as he wrote the name and number down on his notes.

"Dan," Greene huffed.

"Excuse me?" Tony asked.

"The name's Dan. If we're going to keep talking like this, you might as well use it," Greene said.

"Thanks Dan," Tony responded.

"Watch your ass, kid. If you're right about Douglas, he's not someone to mess around with. You get anything, you call me, you hear?" Greene said in a 'take no prisoners' voice.

"Loud and clear, sir," Tony answered smartly.

"Don't call me sir," Greene said, as he hung up.

Tony just sat, staring at his phone. That had been just like talking to Gibbs! If he hadn't seen Greene, he would have sworn that Greene and Gibbs were clones. And that led to him thinking about Gibbs again. Tony didn't indulge himself in that very often. As a matter of fact, he usually immediately clamped down hard on stray thoughts about Gibbs. He had lost too many hours thinking about him, and, although it was more than pleasant while it lasted, when he was done, he always felt needy and alone. He couldn't afford that kind of distraction now. He had a lot to think about, and plans to make. He was just sure that this was the break he had needed on Cassie's case. Now he just had to figure out how he was going to pursue it, around his responsibilities at work.

Monday morning dawned none too soon for either Tony or Gibbs. They were both up early, neither having slept very well, too consumed by their private thoughts.

Tony dressed with great care that morning, choosing one of his favorite pinstriped Zegna suits, and a pale cool green shirt that always made him feel confidant. He teamed these with a charcoal grey and emerald green striped tie, which he knotted carefully as he stood before his mirror. Looking himself over when he was done, he decided that this was as good as it was going to get that day. He was hoping his clothes would distract, and no one would notice that he looked tired, or slightly preoccupied. One of the few lessons he had embraced, from the dozens his father had tried to quite literally beat into him, was the idea that clothes made the man. After all, they had hidden the scars and bruises from his 'learning experiences,' and they still served to redirect observers who might otherwise see too deeply. Armor firmly in place, Tony stopped in the living room long enough to copy Dr. Franklin's number into his pocket notebook, and was on the road to work by 6:45, eager to beat everyone else in.

6:45 found Gibbs standing in line at his favorite coffee shop, just a block down from the NCIS offices. He had mechanically taken himself through his usual morning rituals, reserving most of his thoughts for whether he was going to confront Tony with what he knew. It wasn't that he had a problem speaking his mind, but he wasn't sure he wanted to admit to having spent so much time and effort on figuring out what Tony was up to. For one thing, it didn't go with his no nonsense image, and for another, and more important reason, he didn't want to spook Tony. Tony had a bad habit of cutting and running when things got too hard to deal with, and Gibbs was pretty sure that figuring out that your very male boss was more than a little interested in you would be considered 'too hard to deal with' by Tony. He still had arrived at no conclusion when he walked through the lobby doors of NCIS, only to find Tony standing and waiting for the elevator.

"Morning, Boss," Tony said brightly. "Arming yourself for the day?" he asked, gesturing to the coffee cup in Gibbs' hand.

Gibbs merely hmphed in response, and nodded Tony onto the elevator when it arrived. They rode in silence for a few moments, and then Gibbs said, "You're here awfully early this morning, DiNozzo."

"Early bird, the worm and all that, Boss," was Tony's reply.

"We'll see," Gibbs grumped.

The elevator arrived on their floor none too quickly for Tony, and he hurried to his desk. Part of him was glad Gibbs hadn't said anything about Saturday, but another part was demanding confirmation of his suspicion that it was Gibbs who had shut down his computer.

Gibbs crossed to his own desk much slower than Tony. He saw Tony stow his ever present back pack under his desk, after having removed his notebook. Gibbs was just getting ready to sit down when Tony reached over to turn his computer on. Unable to resist, Gibbs stood and watched, looking for any sign of realization on Tony's part that the computer was not as he had left it on Saturday. When Tony never looked up, or gave any kind of physical clue, Gibbs settled down behind his desk, and reached over to power up his own computer, deciding to watch and wait.

Tony had felt Gibbs watching him as he turned on his computer. He had gotten to the point where it was no longer always necessary for him to see Gibbs to sense when he was being observed. Gibbs' eyes could cut through him like silent blue laser beams, capable of both wounding and healing. Afraid of what he would see if he looked up, Tony resolutely stared at his monitor, not wanting to address the questions Gibbs would undoubtedly have.

They spent their morning like this, alternating between avoidance and covert observation. McGee's arrival at 8:30 had provided a welcome distraction. Tony had interrogated him about his weekend, and Gibbs had used it as a catalyst to take himself up to Vance's office for his daily briefing. When he returned half an hour later, in a better mood than usual after one on one time with Leon, due to Vance's pleasure at receiving the completed performance reports, Gibbs checked in with his team, and then took himself down to see Ducky, eager to avoid the tension being caused by sitting in the same room with Tony.

"Ah, good morning, Jethro," Ducky welcomed him as he walked into the morgue.

"Duck," Gibbs said, in lieu of a more traditional greeting.

"Did you have a good weekend?" Ducky asked.

"Spent most of it here, doing paperwork," Gibbs muttered darkly.

"Well, that explains your sunny disposition," Ducky rejoined, not at all perturbed. They had been friends for far too long for Ducky to be put off by Gibbs' gruff demeanor. "I should have thought you would have welcomed the time away."

"Intended to Ducky, I just got sucked into finishing some stuff, and before I knew it the weekend was over," Gibbs confessed, telling the truth if not all the details.

"You need to guard against that becoming a description of your life, my friend," Ducky cautioned, knowing he was one of the few people who could speak to Gibbs that way.

Gibbs didn't respond, he merely looked at Ducky and raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to continue.

Undaunted, that was exactly what Ducky did. "Pardon me for pointing this out Jethro, but you aren't getting any younger. You need to find someone to spend some time with, someone who makes you happy. I think if you let your guard down just a bit, you would discover that isn't an impossible task," he said kindly. "Sometimes it's just a matter of looking closely at the world around us," he added mysteriously.

"I'll bear that in mind, Duck," Gibbs grunted. "How is your mother? I assume you went to see her this weekend?" he asked, knowing that was sure to sidetrack his friend.

Fulfilling Gibbs' expectations, Ducky launched into a long winded recitation on his mother's latest antics, a story that somehow involved a male orderly, the rose garden at the nursing home, and his mother's knickers. Gibbs was only listening with half an ear, thinking instead about what Ducky had said earlier. Ducky was right, he knew. He would be better off having someone to do things with, someone to help him decompress at the end of the day. He even knew who he wanted that someone to be. The problem was, he had looked at the world around him, and he didn't see how his desires fit into it, or how he could even broach them. Not without risking the chance of destroying that very same world. Gibbs slowly realized that the room had become silent. Ducky was done with his story and was gazing intently at him.

"Sorry Ducky, didn't sleep well last night. Drifted off there for a second," Gibbs apologized.

Ducky, who was used to this happening when he told a story, merely smiled and said, "No offense taken, Jethro," hoping Gibbs had actually been giving some thought to his previous statements, rather than merely phasing out, but knowing better than to push any further.

"Ducky, has Tony ever mentioned any of his old cases from his police days to you?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm sure he has," was the response. "Young Anthony is far from reticent; he has talked about a wide range of subjects over the years. But no one instance comes to mind. Why do you ask?" Ducky inquired curiously.

"So nothing recently?" Gibbs pushed.

"Not that I recall, Jethro. Is there something I should know about?"

"It's probably nothing. Don't worry about it, Duck. Really just came down to see how your weekend was. Better get back up there before Tony has McGee's ass super glued to his chair," Gibbs said with a wave, as he headed off.

It was Ducky's turn to raise an eyebrow as he watched Gibbs' departing back.

Lunchtime couldn't come quickly enough for Tony. He had hatched a plan last night to get a little more information, but needed McGee and Gibbs to leave before he could put it into action. When Abby came to fetch McGee for lunch, and Gibbs announced he was going for coffee, Tony knew this was his opportunity. Waiting until the other two men were safely gone, he pulled out his cell phone and Dr. Franklin's, the psychiatrist's, phone number, which he proceeded to punch into his phone.

"Drs. Franklin and Richards offices. This is Denise. How may I help you?" asked a sexy young female voice on the other end of his phone.

"I don't know, Denise, I'm in need of a lot of help," he joked. "Seriously though, my name is Harry Callahan, I'm with MetLife. I just need a little information on one of Dr. Franklin's patients who recently passed away. It's a formality, but we can't finish processing the claim without knowing the date of this patient's last appointment with the doctor. You know how it is, we're all slaves to the system," he said, putting on his best flirtatious voice.

"What was the name, Mr. Callahan? Let me attempt to help you," she said, matching Tony's teasing tone.

"Sarah Douglas, born 1978. Thanks, you're a doll," he gushed.

"Let me call up her records," Denise said.

There was a brief pause, and then she asked, "You did say Sarah Douglas, right?"

"Yeah, Douglas, d-o-u-g-l-a-s," Tony spelled.

"I don't have any record of a Sarah Douglas, is there any chance it would be under another name?" she asked.

"Well, her maiden name was Jones, maybe it's listed under that," Tony suggested.

"Hang on a second," Denise instructed, as she typed in the new name, and paused to read what came up on the screen.

"Well, Dr. Franklin does have a patient named Sarah Jones, but she's sixty-two years old. I doubt that's your lady," Denise said.

"That's weird," Tony said. "Maybe I got the wrong Dr. Franklin. This is Dr. Franklin, the cardiologist, right?" wanting to help Denise find a way to dismiss this phone call.

Denise started to laugh, "No, that's your problem, this is a psychiatric practice. I though you knew it when you joked about needing a lot of help," she giggled.

Tony laughed along with her, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then rang off. He was excited about what he had learned. There being no record of Sarah Douglas at Dr. Franklin's office confirmed his suspicions about the prescription. Something was definitely off about the whole thing. Now he really wanted to see the other bottle that was still in the medicine cabinet, very curious about what doctor's name would be found on it. After thinking about how to achieve that, he decided his only option was to stake out Douglas' house again, looking for a chance to slip in quickly, get the information, and get back out again. Once he knew what was going on, he vowed to keep his promise and call Greene to fill him in.

They caught a case right after lunch, which helped alleviate both Gibbs' and Tony's tension by giving them something else to concentrate on. The case wasn't anything too complicated, just a barroom brawl that went fatally wrong. It took the team until 6:00 p.m. to wrap up all the paperwork, and by the time they were done, Tony was eager to get home and change, so that he would be ready to go over to Douglas' house just after dark. He barely took the time to say good bye once Gibbs dismissed them for the night. As Tony high-tailed it out of the bullpen at top speed, Gibbs just sat and watched him, still wondering what was going on, and why Tony seemed to be in such a hurry, trying to ignore the warning his gut was sending him.

Tony got home and ate a quick bite, then changed into another all black outfit, preparing to go back out. He loaded a small, but powerful mag-lite into his back pocket, and grabbed a pair of very thin, black gloves out of the hall closet. After dithering for a second, he fastened on his shoulder holster and gun, throwing his black leather jacket over the top to conceal it. Finally ready, he took himself off to Douglas' house, getting there at about 8:15.

What Tony couldn't have known, was what had happened at Dr. Franklin's office earlier that day.

Denise's person was as sexy as her voice, and Dr. Franklin often found himself just hanging around her desk, making small talk, just for the pleasure of looking at her long shapely legs and luxurious auburn hair. This was especially true since Dr. Franklin had separated from his wife. In an effort to entertain him, Denise had told him about the call from the insurance man about a Sarah Douglas, thinking he would find the confusion of Dr. Franklins amusing. Instead of laughing, he had looked startled and then concerned. Pleading a sudden headache, he had dashed back to his office, shutting the door. He hurried over to his phone and dialed a number. When the call was answered he said, not bothering to identify himself, "Someone called here today, asking about Sarah Douglas. They said she was deceased. I assume that's your wife. What the hell is going on?" he demanded, and then silently listened to the voice on the other end.

"Yes, fine. We can meet for a drink at 7:30 over at Chances Are; it's close to both our places. I expect more answers then." Franklin hung up.

At 7:15, James Douglas left his empty house, on his way to meet with Franklin.


	6. Chapter 7

**Chapter seven:**

When Tony approached Douglas' house he was surprised to find that all the windows were dark. No one seemed to be home. 'I couldn't be that lucky,' he thought to himself. He circled the block on foot, forcing himself to quell his excitement and maintain the easy, nonchalant pace he had set when he left the restaurant's parking lot, where he had once again parked his car. Walking to the end of the block, he turned the corner and headed towards the alley. He walked down it as silently as possible, avoiding the garbage cans lined along its edge, waiting for pickup the next day, and hoping that no neighborhood dog had been put out back. Reaching Douglas' backyard without knocking into a can or triggering a canine alarm system, he quickly surveyed the rear of the house. No lights were visible from this side either. The fact that there were two full garbage cans beside Douglas' garage, nestled along the alley's drive suggested that Douglas had been home at some point that evening. People usually didn't place their cans out by the side of the road until the night before; for fear that dogs or raccoons would tip the cans over, spreading debris everywhere. That pleased Tony immensely. If Douglas had been home earlier, it meant he was probably out for the evening, giving Tony a little more time in the house.

Looking around for any curious observers, and seeing none, Tony cut quickly into the backyard. There was a redwood deck attached to the back of the house, with a large, double sliding glass door for entry. Tony slithered across the deck and pressed himself against the glass of the door, trying to keep as small a profile as possible. Before doing anything else, he slid on the gloves he had brought along, and then tried the door, only to find it locked. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed the lock pick he had stowed away, fervently hoping there was no alarm system attached to the door. He had looked for signs of one the other night, and not found any, but there were a few expensive systems that were impossible to see from the outside. Holding his breath, he slid the pick into the lock. Tony twisted it a few times, pushing while he did it, until he felt something in the lock shift. Carefully withdrawing the tool, he gently tried the handle again, giving himself an invisible hi-five when the door cracked open.

Sliding quickly into the house, he immediately studied the wall next to the door, looking for an alarm box. Finding none, he closed the door softly behind him, and took out the mag-lite. Not wanting to risk someone seeing the light through the sliding doors, he walked carefully forward, one arm extended to prevent him from bumping into something by mistake. His eyes had adjusted to the dark just enough for him to see that he was in the eat-in area of a large kitchen. Deciding to risk shining the light for one quick moment, he swept the far wall with the beam, looking for the door into the rest of the house, and any obstacles in his way. With his destination located, Tony crept towards the door, alert to any sounds. Once he passed through the door, he found himself at the end of a long hallway, with doorways on either side. Turning his light back on, and aiming it low to the ground, he began to explore. He passed a door which led to the dining room, a beautifully appointed room with a large, carved wood table anchoring the middle, surrounded by matching chairs. The first door to his left, revealed a television room, complete with a burgundy leather sectional; an almost movie screen sized TV attached to one wall. He passed the study which Douglas had been sitting in the other night, and a large closet. Finally he reached the end of the hall, and stepped into a grand foyer. To his right sat the formal living room, and to his left, a large staircase. Knowing the bedrooms would be on the second floor, he crossed to the stairs and started to climb.

Tony got to the top of the stairs and took a moment to get his bearings. He swept the flashlight along the hallway to get a better look. The dense, floral carpet runner that had covered the center of the stairs, extended down the upstairs hallway. There were pictures of all sizes hanging from the walls, and a series of closed doors. A mirrored console table, holding a large potted peace lily, had been placed at the end. To the right of the table was an open door. Tony assumed that was the master bedroom, and padded silently down the hall, towards it.

As he stepped through the open door, he discovered that he had been right; this was undoubtedly Douglas' bedroom. It was a large room, nearly double the size of his own bedroom. An enormous canopy bed, draped in ice blue and silver damask, and decorated with a profusion of pillows in varying sizes, jutted out of one corner. An upholstered bench guarded the footboard, with a pair of men's shoes resting on the floor in front of it. Two large dressers, a pale blue and grey sofa, a low coffee table and a cream arm chair occupied the rest of the floor space in the room. The floor to ceiling windows which graced the street side wall of the room had been covered in rich, silver colored drapes that were drawn shut. The sofa and chair had been arranged around a large fireplace, loaded with wood, ready to provide additional warmth and ambience. Impressionistic paintings, hung in ornate silver frames, broke up the expanse of cold blue walls. 'Just a little overdone,' Tony thought, as he continued to study his surroundings. There was a door on one of the side walls, cracked partially open. When Tony opened it wider, he saw that it led to a large dressing area, lined with bi-fold closet doors, and a connecting master bath.

There were no windows in the bathroom, and Tony decided it was safe to switch on the light, wanting the added illumination when he studied the contents of the medicine cabinet, hung over the toilet. Setting his flashlight on the marbled top of the vanity, next to a tall, heavy alabaster and bronze table lamp, he crossed the room. Opening the medicine cabinet, he saw several pill containers. Each was for a different drug, one of which was Phenobarbital. They were made out to Sarah Douglas, but the prescribing doctor's name on each was Chancellor, not Franklin. That was very odd. Tony pulled out the bottle of Phenobarbital and opened it up. There were at least fifteen pills in it, more than enough to provide a fatal dose. 'So why did she have another bottle of the pills?' he wondered. 'And more importantly, why had they been prescribed by another doctor?' He was standing there, holding the pill bottle, debating the advisability of taking it with him, when he heard a noise. Spinning around, he had just enough time for his brain to register on the fact that Douglas was standing beside him, before the man swung the heavy table lamp onto the top of Tony's head.

Several minutes before this occurred: Douglas had pulled into his driveway and parked his car, not bothering to put it into the garage. His meeting with Franklin had left him worried and on edge, and he preferred the open space his drive allotted him. It had taken him close to a half hour to calm the doctor down; assuring him that there was nothing to be worried about. Franklin couldn't understand how his name had come up, and Douglas claimed to have no idea, not wanting to tell him about the bottle of pills found beside the bed during the investigation of the apparent suicide. Franklin had written that prescription for Douglas as a favor to his lawyer, a reward for Douglas' underhanded methods of smearing his wife in the divorce proceedings, and helping to hide some undeclared assets during the settlement. Franklin had never even met Sarah Douglas. Douglas had told him that his wife was jumpy, prone to depression, and had once responded well to Phenobarbital when her doctor in Pennsylvania had prescribed it. Douglas had lamented that since they had arrived in Washington, he had not been able to get her to agree to seek out a new doctor, and now she was regressing. Douglas had begged Franklin for the prescription, claiming it would help stabilize Sarah, and enable him to persuade her to seek proper help. Franklin had obliged him, afraid of what Douglas could reveal about him.

By the time the men were on their second drink, Douglas had succeeded in convincing the doctor that there was nothing to worry about, that the call really had just been a fluke. He then lied, knowing from his experience defending Franklin in the divorce case that Franklin would never bother to investigate the matter further, preferring to let others solve his problems for him. He told him that it couldn't have been his wife anyway, as his wife had only been twenty-five years old, and that it was most probably a mix up in doctors, reminding him that Franklin was not an unusual name. Douglas assured him there had been no questions about what had happened with his wife, and that no one would ever have known about a less than legitimate prescription, written several months ago. By the time they were ready to leave at 8:00 p.m., Franklin was actually apologizing for overreacting.

Unfortunately, Douglas' con did not extend to himself. He was seriously worried about what had happened that afternoon. Douglas had no idea who had called the doctor's office, but he was sure it wasn't an insurance adjuster. There had been no problems when he had filed the paperwork to claim the money owed him from Sarah's policy. No, someone was snooping into her death, and that made him nervous. He had made a mistake this time, he told himself. It was better when there was no body to be found. He didn't understand why anyone thought the suicide wasn't on the up and up, though. He had mixed all the pills in the orange juice container in the refrigerator before he'd gone to play golf that morning, and dumped the remaining juice when he got home, right before he put the pill bottle by the bed. He was still searching for the flaws in his plan as he unlocked his front door, and let himself into the house.

Douglas was exhausted, and didn't bother turning on any lights. He climbed the stairs, eager to wash his face and brush his teeth and fall into bed. As he walked through the bedroom's doorway, he noticed light spilling from the bathroom door. The general unease he had been feeling flared into uncontrollable fear. Leaving the room in darkness, he crept quietly to the bathroom door and peered in. The light was on and a man, dressed all in black, stood with his back to him, next to the open door of the medicine cabinet. Douglas could see that he was holding a prescription bottle in his gloved hand. 'This had to be who had called Franklin's office!' he exclaimed silently. All rational thought flew out the window at that point, and terror set in. Walking as softly as he could, he stepped in, passing through the dressing area and into the bathroom proper. Not even really planning what he was going to do, he grabbed the first heavy thing he saw – the alabaster and bronze lamp. When the man started to turn towards him, panic took over and he swung the lamp forward, smashing it over the intruder's head. As he stared, surprised by what he had just done, the man collapsed to the floor.


	7. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight:**

Douglas looked down at the man lying in a heap on his bathroom floor, blood seeping across the tiles from the gash on his head, realizing in horror that he recognized him. It was that cop from Philadelphia! Random thoughts started swirling in his head. He looked a little older, but Douglas was amazed at how little the man had really changed. 'What in the hell is he doing here?' he thought, his head spinning. He couldn't remember the man's name, something Italian he recalled, but that was the least of his concerns. If he was here, asking questions about Sarah's death, that meant he had never really given up the investigation into Cassie's case, and that realization led him to an even more alarming notion; it meant the cop somehow knew that he was responsible for her disappearance. In the next instant it occurred to him that he had no way of knowing who the cop had talked to about his suspicions. There was no telling who else might come looking for him.

Douglas took several deep breaths, trying to quell the rising hysteria he was feeling. 'Maybe I could claim this was self defense,' he thought, but rejected the idea almost as soon as he thought it. The last thing he needed was more cops in here asking questions. Reaching down, he dug through the pockets of the leather jacket the cop was wearing until he found a wallet. Pulling it out, he opened it, horrified when he saw an ID card with the man's picture and name - Anthony DiNozzo, and the words Naval Criminal Investigative Services printed along the top. 'Oh my god, he's a fed now!' the voice inside his brain screamed. Then he had another idea. He reached back down and pulled the jacket open, confirming his fears. The man was wearing a shoulder holster equipped with a gun! Pulling the gun out, he stood back up, fixated on the object in his hand. Not knowing what to do with it, he finally shoved it into the back of his pants. What had started out as a bad night had slowly transformed into a living nightmare. He had to get him out of his house while he thought about what to do.

Racing back to the dressing room area, he opened a closet door and pulled out two of his ties. Opening another door, he sifted through the hangers until he found what he was looking for, one of Sarah's old scarves. He hurried back to the bathroom and knelt down beside DiNozzo. Rolling him over onto his stomach, he wrapped the scarf around Tony's mouth, and folded it into a messy knot at the back of DiNozzo's head. Douglas pulled his hands behind his back and proceeded to secure them together with one of the ties. Then he crawled down to DiNozzo's feet, and repeated the process at his ankles with the other tie. Sitting back, Douglas looked his handiwork. It wasn't perfect, and certainly wouldn't do in the long run, but would prevent him from escaping should he awaken. The pool of blood on the floor had grown significantly larger, and Douglas found himself hoping that meant that DiNozzo would never wake up. A wave of anger washed over him. 'This man has ruined my life,' he thought bitterly, never once thinking his own actions had been the cause of all this. Since he didn't have any way of knowing when someone else would come looking for him, or what they knew about his actions, Douglas realized he was going to have to disappear; leaving his great new job and beautiful home behind. He had no idea what he was going to do, or where he was going to go. He knew he had to get the cop out of his house, and that meant taking him somewhere he couldn't be found. First, though, he would have to get him into the car. 'Damn, the car that was sitting in the driveway!'

Shutting the bathroom door behind him, Douglas retraced his steps back out of the house and climbed into his car. He pressed the garage door opener, and once the way was clear, he pulled his car inside. Hitting the remote again, he watched the door close through the rearview mirror, as he just sat in his car, paralyzed for the moment by the growing sense of dread that was encompassing him. He wasn't the kind of man who liked to do things without a well thought out plan. He had waited three months to kill Sarah after he had swindled the prescription out of Franklin; biding his time, making sure he staged the fake suicide perfectly – and still he had made some mistake, or he wouldn't be in the mess he was now. He didn't want to kill the cop until he had some plan in place; he was just going to have to figure out somewhere to stow him for now. He pressed the button on the side of the dashboard which released the trunk door and then, getting out of the car, he walked over to the built in cabinets that lined the back of the garage. Reaching into one, he dug through the various hand tools and hardware, looking for something. Finally, he pulled out a long length of rope; he needed to replace the ties with rope.

Taking the rope back into the house and up to the bathroom, he was relieved to see that DiNozzo had not moved. Opening a drawer on the vanity, he pulled out a pair of scissors and cut the rope in two. He proceeded to tie the two sections of rope over the top of the ties at DiNozzo's wrists and ankles, making sure to pull tightly. Satisfied with the results, he went out into the hall and opened the door to the linen closet, from which he withdrew a large, dark blanket. Once he was back in the bathroom, he bent, and with considerable trouble, lifted DiNozzo up, throwing him over his shoulder and wrapping the cover over the top of him. He paused to look at his burden as he passed the large mirror hanging over the vanity. It certainly wasn't perfect camouflage; the outline of a body was still visible, but Douglas knew it was the best he could do. He'd have to count on the darkness of the night sky to aide him as he walked through the back  
yard to the side door of the garage, thankful that his neighbors were not the nosy sort, and were not likely to be looking out their windows, spying on his house. Moving as quickly as he could, so encumbered, he passed through the house and out the doors leading to his deck. He hurried to his car, and threw Tony into the open trunk, rearranging the blanket so that he could not be seen if you looked casually into the compartment. Then he slammed the lid, and rushed back into the house.

Throwing an assortment of clothes and toiletries into the suitcase he had dragged down from the attic, Douglas prepared to run. He had already gotten his laptop, checkbook and passport from the library, and had even had the foresight to go on line to put a hold on his paper and mail, thinking that the last thing he needed was to have newspapers start collecting on his front stoop, drawing unwanted attention. He had swiped a towel over the puddle of blood in the bathroom, and then thrown the soiled towel into the back of his closet, not wanting to make it easy to find should anyone come into the house; and then washed his hands repeatedly, as if this would somehow rinse away what had happened. Once everything was packed, he paused in the kitchen long enough to pull a bottle of water from the refrigerator, then carrying everything out to the car and throwing it in the back seat, he sat back down in the driver's seat. As before, he contented himself with just sitting for a few minutes, planning his next step. His parents had a cabin in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains they rarely used since the kids had all grown up. It was secluded, and there were no other houses near it. That would be the perfect place to lie low, while he waited to see what was going to happen. With a loose plan in place, he pressed the remote which opened the garage door, and backed out. It would take him about two hours to get there, and he could think about his next step as he drove.

It was the throbbing of his head that woke Tony up. Fighting down the instant nausea caused by the pain, he assessed his situation. He could tell he was lying on his back on the ground, somewhere cold and dank. The air smelled faintly of motor oil and dust, overlaid by the distinctive scent of rotting organic material. He could hear chirping from a variety of birds, and the buzzing of insects coming from somewhere nearby. When he wiggled tentatively he discovered that his hands were tied behind his back; his legs bound together at the ankles. Something had been secured around his mouth, and the weight of his head pressed the gag's knot into his already aching head. Rolling his head to the side to release the pressure, he slowly began to open his eyes. At first he couldn't see clearly, shapes squiggled and squirmed in front of his tear blurred eyes, but Tony blinked his eyes a few times, ignoring how the light filtering in intensified the pounding in his head, and the objects began to solidify.

The lawn mower, assorted rakes and shovels, discarded flower pots and a wheel barrow suggested that he was in a garage. Dizziness was sweeping over him in waves as he catalogued his surroundings. Thinking he might feel better if he wasn't viewing everything from a ninety degree angle, he contracted his stomach muscles and slowly sat up. Righting the angle from which he was looking at things did seem to help steady him. Tony confirmed what he had suspected, he was in a garage. Sunlight fought for entrance with the dirt streaked windows that were placed high on the back wall, sending shafts of light like spotlights around the space. The walls of the garage were bare beamed. Snowshoes, sleds, and bicycles hung from hooks against it; jump-ropes, various types of balls, and roller skates had been placed in net bags that were neatly stacked under the bikes. A couple of old bales of hay were piled in one corner, slowly turning to compost, next to three old fashioned wooden baskets, probably used to collect leaves after raking. Cobwebs and dust covered all the items, giving the garage a haunted quality and suggesting disuse and neglect. 'Guess I'm not at Douglas' anymore," Tony thought, knowing that the inside of Douglas' garage would look nothing like this. 'A family once lived here,' he thought as he looked around, the compilation of items speaking to the care and love that once filled the space.

'I need to find a way out of here. Can't just sit on my ass until Douglas comes back and finishes the job,' he ordered himself. Wiggling over to a workbench jutting out from one wall, he leaned his back against it. Pressing into it, using its stability to help lever himself up, he struggled to his feet. Tony stood still for a few minutes, fighting the urge to collapse back down when vertigo competed with the pain in his head for attention. Looking down at the top of the workbench, he saw a variety of woodworking tools and hardware, the area resembling the counters in Gibbs' basement. A large metal bench vise, its clamps gaping open, had been screwed onto the edge of the benchtop, and must have, at one time, held the wood the owner had planed and sculpted into the desired shape. That gave Tony an idea. Hopping down to the end, where the vise was affixed, he turned around and painfully wrenched his hands up, until they were resting against the upper edge of the clamps. Then he began to move them back and forth against the metal, dragging the rope across the sharp edge.

It took Tony the better part of an hour to free his hands. He ignored the new pain and dampness that he could feel coating his hands, suggesting that he was cutting himself at the same time he was sawing through his bonds. When his hands finally fell free, he wiggled his fingers, trying to work blood back into his numb digits, and then bent down and began to untie his feet. He wasn't surprised to see the deep cuts that now graced his wrists and the side of his hands. Once all his limbs were free, he reached up and untied the gag. Seeing that it was a scarf, he wrapped it around his left hand, trying to staunch the bleeding, and looked around for something else to use on his other hand. Finding an old work apron, he put one end in his mouth and pulled, ripping off a long strip, which he twined around his right wrist.

Immediate needs taken care of, he reached into his jacket pocket, looking for, but not expecting to find, his cell phone. As expected, the phone was gone. He reached into his jacket to confirm his worst fears; his gun was also missing. Not even hoping to find his wallet, he reached into his back pocket, needing to be thorough. 'Great, no phone, gun, money or ID and running from an armed perp, courtesy of me,' he chided himself, vainly wishing he had left the gun at home. 'I need to get out of here,' he told himself, 'right now, before the asshole returns.' He crossed to a side door and turned the handle, surprised when it opened. 'Sloppy, sloppy,' he said silently. Sliding out and plastering himself to the side of the garage, he looked around. He was deep in the woods somewhere. Peeking around the corner, he saw a large, log cabin. Assuming that Douglas could be inside, Tony crouched low, and headed in the opposite  
direction, into the cover provided by the dense foliage from the woods. He needed to put some distance between himself and Douglas, as quickly as he could. Once he was clear of the house, he began to run, one arm up to shield his face from low hanging branches.

He ran for about a mile, and then stopped to catch his breath as he tried to steady himself, too dizzy to continue. He had no idea what time it was, or where he was. From the position of the sun, he could tell it was early afternoon, and he had to assume it was Tuesday. Surely he hadn't been unconscious for more than half a day. He knew he had a bad concussion; he was too familiar with the symptoms to write it off as anything else. He also suspected he was suffering from blood loss. He had discovered the cut on the top of his head when his forehead had started to itch, and he had reached up to scratch, bringing down a hand covered in blood, reconstituted by sweat. He needed to find a road, flag down a car, and borrow a cell phone. His only consolation was the knowledge that by now, Gibbs would be looking for him.

While Tony was making his way through the woods, Douglas was just leaving the small, neighboring town of Warrenton. He had slept late that morning, exhausted from the drive and the emotional upheaval. It had been a long night. He had been half way to the cabin when he had thought of the cell phone. Pulling into a rest stop, he had jumped out of the car and scurried back to the trunk. Popping it open, he had routed around in Tony's pockets until he had found his cell. He watched TV; he knew you could trace a cell phone. Slamming the lid of the trunk back down, he walked to the edge of the small outcropping of grass and trees and threw the cell phone as far as he could. He had just gotten a few steps back towards his car, when he had another thought. Reaching into his own pocket, he pulled his phone out and looked at it with regret. He loved that phone; it was top of the line and did absolutely everything a phone could do. 'Better safe than sorry,' he told himself, as he pitched his phone out into the grass, near where he had thrown Tony's, then he had returned to the car and headed on. He had made another stop later to buy some food supplies and pull the maximum allotted amount out of his bank account with his debit card.

It had been a little after one in the morning when he had pulled onto the mile long, gravel road that led to the cabin. Parking the car next to the garage, he had yanked Tony from the trunk and dumped him onto the floor of the garage. When Tony did not move an inch, giving no sign of waking up, Douglas had moved the car closer to the house, and unloaded. By two, he fell into bed, telling himself he would figure out what to do in the morning.

When he woke up at ten o'clock, he quickly cleaned up and dressed in fresh clothes. He needed to get some more money and buy one of those prepaid cell phones. Leaving the house, he stopped down at the garage, pleased to see that Tony still gave no signs of waking up. 'Maybe he'll do me a favor and die while I'm gone,' he told himself as he walked back to the car. He drove to the nearest town, a small little city called Warrenton. When he was growing up, his family had spent every Christmas at the cabin, and it was in Warrenton that he and his sister had sat on Santa's lap, whispering their hopes and desires for gifts that year. Groceries had been bought there from the small grocery store on Main Street, and library cards obtained so that they could get books for inclement weather, when they weren't able to amuse themselves outside. He hadn't been back in over a dozen years, but he suspected very little had changed.

Pulling into town, he parked in front of the local bank and went in, relieved when he saw an ATM machine. That would save him having to try to convince a teller to cash a check. Once again, he withdrew the maximum amount. From there he headed to the drugstore, where he was able to buy a cheap, pay as you go, phone. With his pressing errands done, he decided to treat himself to a late breakfast. There was a small café on the next block, and he went in, seating himself in a booth in the back. Once he had ordered, he thought about his options.

In his panic last night, he had blown his best bet. It would have been better to call the police, and claim he had surprised an intruder in his house and then express shock and confusion when it was revealed that the man was a federal agent. Then he could have bought himself a little more time to better organize his disappearance. But instead, he had allowed paranoia to rule him, and he had just run. Now he was committed to this course of action. 'This was not how it was supposed to turn out,' he thought angrily. He was supposed to commit yet another perfect murder, collect the half million dollar insurance money, invest it, and work for a few more years before retiring sinfully early to somewhere exotic, like Greece. Instead, he was fleeing like a common criminal, hunted by an unknown number of agencies, with no working plan, and somehow, he was sure this was all DiNozzo's fault. The longer he thought about it, the angrier he got. When the waitress brought his food and asked if he wanted a refill on his coffee, he nearly snapped her head off, he was so worked up. He barely tasted his food as he swallowed it down. He needed some answers, he realized, and the cop was the key.

When he had paid, leaving only a dollar as a tip, he hurried back to his car. He had to wake DiNozzo up and get some answers. He needed to know what DiNozzo knew and who he had told. Once he knew that, he could make a better plan, he told himself. He sped back to the cabin, watching for cops as he drove. Being pulled over for speeding would be a disaster, he reminded himself, as he forced his foot off the accelerator. When he got back, he headed straight for the garage. Throwing open the door, he stared in horror when he found it empty, a pile of bloody rope on the floor by his dad's old work bench. After searching the garage and the surrounding area, he headed back to the house. Digging through the clothes he had dumped on the chair next to the bed last night, he picked up Tony's gun. Once again tucking it into his waistband, he went back outside, intending to search the nearby woods, hoping that Tony hadn't gotten too far, and fully prepared to stop him any way possible.


	8. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine:**

Tuesday morning found Gibbs sitting at his desk by 7:00 a.m. He was actually surprised that he was alone. Recently, Tony had come into the office almost as early, if not earlier, than he did. They never spoke of it, or his reasons, although Gibbs knew it was Tony's way of alleviating some of the additional responsibilities that the remaining team members had to absorb since Ziva's departure. Tony took pride in his role as senior agent, Gibbs knew, and was always doing extra work, usually under the radar, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge anything that would disrupt his carefully crafted image of a competent, but carefree jokester. He'd trained and worked with other good agents over the years; some who were perhaps smarter than Tony on paper, some who were stronger or quicker, some who were more technically savvy, but not a one of them had been as effective as Tony. Tony was the total package - intuitive, street smart, a good detective, fast, an exceptionally hard worker, a good leader, trustworthy. Tony was an investigative jack-of-all- trades, Gibbs thought, in the best sense of the term. When you added in his affable personality, you had the perfect mix. Gibbs knew he wasn't the only one who noticed. Hell, Fornell, from over at the FBI, was constantly trying to poach Tony, and there had been plenty of offers from various police forces, and the private sector over the years, even from other offices and teams at NCIS. 'And yet, Tony is still here,' Gibbs mused. Sometimes he wondered why, but didn't dwell on it too often, not willing to jinx a good thing.

When McGee came in at 8:00, and there was still no sign of Tony, Gibbs began to wonder what was up. Had Tony overslept, too tired from trying to balance his private investigation with the demands of the job? By 8:30, he was perturbed, and by 9:15, he was worried.

Tony's desk phone began to ring at 9:30. Gibbs and McGee turned to stare at it. It called attention to what they had both reframed from commenting on.

"Answer the damned thing, McGee," Gibbs barked.

"Um, Boss, Tony doesn't like it when I answer his phone," McGee stuttered.

"Do you see Tony anywhere?" Gibbs asked acidly.

McGee didn't bother to respond; he merely rushed over to Tony's desk and picked up the receiver. "Tony DiNozzo's desk," he said into the phone, and then paused to allow the caller to speak.

"Could you hold for just a second?" McGee asked, in response to whatever the caller had said. Then he pressed the receiver into his belly and said, "Boss, there's a guy asking for a Detective DiNozzo, what should I say?"

"Gimme the phone," Gibbs said, arm outstretched, as he stepped around his desk and crossed over to Tony's desk. Taking the phone from McGee, he spoke into it saying, "AGENT DiNozzo isn't in right now, who is this?" and paused.

"No, I don't know when he will be in. Who is this?" Gibbs said in response to the caller.

"Is there something I can help you with, Detective Greene. My name's _Special Agent Gibbs_, and I am _Agent _DiNozzo's boss," he said in his best, 'do what I'm ordering you' voice. The caller's response was short, but the irritation it caused was plainly visible on Gibbs' face, as the small frown he had been wearing deepened into a frightening scowl.

"No, I'm not in the habit of taking DiNozzo's messages, and yes, NCIS can afford voice mail," Gibbs hissed into the phone. "I have my reasons for answering his phone today."

Greene responded, and then Gibbs said snappishly, "I don't know when he'll be in; he should have been here over an hour ago, and he hasn't seen fit to appraise me of his whereabouts"

"No, this doesn't happen a lot, never, in fact," Gibbs said after listening to Det. Greene.

Det. Greene's comments were much longer this time, and the frown on Gibbs' face began to morph into concern. He injected the occasional, 'when was that?" and "un huh," and "no," into the conversation, looking more worried with each passing second. Finally, Gibbs said, "Maybe you should come over here and read me in Detective. In the mean time, I'll send an agent over to DiNozzo's apartment to have a look around." Apparently Greene agreed, because Gibbs then said, "See you then," and hung up.

"McGee, go over to DiNozzo's apartment and see if he's there. If he isn't, call me before you leave. Actually, call me even if he is there," Gibbs ordered.

"Boss, how am I supposed to get in if he isn't there?" McGee asked.

Gibbs bit back the various responses he wanted to make to the question, sighed instead, and reached into his pocket to fish out his keys. After locating the one he was searching for, he twisted it around the ring, until it came free. Handing it over to McGee, he ordered, "Here's his spare. Use it. Now, move your ass, McGee."

Ten minutes later, a tall, middle aged man stepped out of the elevator, carrying a cup of coffee. He wore an inexpensive tan tweed blazer, dark brown pants, and light blue shirt, all of which strained slightly, as they stretched across his middle. His once dark hair was mostly grey, and he had deep eye bags, but the eyes that gazed out from the folds of skin were sharp and clear. He scanned the bullpen and immediately zeroed in on Gibbs, who was sitting at his desk looking at the man. Walking over to him, the man held out his hand, "You must be Agent Gibbs," he said. "I'm Det. Greene."

"What, were you calling from the lobby?" Gibbs asked, as he shook the proffered hand.

"Close enough," Greene laughed. Then he held up the coffee and said, "Actually, from the coffee shop around the corner. I was going to invite Agent DiNozzo down for a cup."

Gibbs brushed the last comment off. Gesturing to the chair by his desk, directing Greene to sit, he said, "Tell me more about this suicide thing you said Tony was looking into. And do you know whether it had anything to do with a woman named Cassie Edwards?" he added, almost as an afterthought.

"What do you know about Cassie Edwards?" Greene challenged.

"I know she's missing," Gibbs said, not willing to admit how he had learned this fact.

Greene had just started to tell Gibbs what he knew about Cassie, her boyfriend – Douglas, and the suspicions both he and Tony had about Douglas' wife's suicide, when Gibbs' cell phone rang. Pulling it out, and seeing that it was McGee, he answered.

"What do you have for me?" he demanded.

"He's not here, Boss," McGee said.

After waiting a beat for McGee to elaborate, Gibbs sighed again and prompted, "Does anything look disturbed or out of place, McGee?"

McGee, who was standing in the middle of Tony's living room, looked around and said, "Not really." Walking over to the sofa, to get a better look at the blackboard propped against it, he said, "The only thing that looks different is that Tony has a blackboard on his sofa, with three names on it, and some information written after each name."

Waving his hand at Greene, to make sure he was paying attention to his end of the call, Gibbs asked, "What are the three names on the board?"

"Cassie Edwards, James Douglas, and Sarah Douglas," was the response.

"Grab the board, and get your ass back here fast, McGee," and Gibbs hung up.

Turning his attention back to Greene, he said, "Apparently Tony is using a blackboard as a crime board. He has information about Cassie Edwards and both Douglases on it. I've got my agent bringing it back here. Finish telling me about the Douglas case," he then instructed.

Greene had just finished, having also told about Tony's call for information on the prescription bottle, when McGee arrived back, lugging the blackboard with him. Holding up Tony's blue file folder on Cassie's case, he said, "Found this on the sofa, too, Boss. Brought it back because it's clearly linked."

Taking the board and file from him, Gibbs said, "Run a BOLO on Tony's car, McGee," and then he turned his attention to what Tony had written. Greene had gotten up when McGee had come in, and he crowded next to Gibbs, wanting to see the board, as well.

Looking at it, Greene shook his head and said, "Well, the kid was definitely doing some digging. I told him the other day to make sure he watched his back. What's in the file?"

Gibbs was already digging through the file, having seen quickly that the board contained no new information. "It's got all his old notes on the Cassie Edwards case. Looks like he's been poking at it regularly ever since it happened. He also has some new notes on Douglas, including his tax returns for the last two years. There's a crap load of information here. It's going to take a long time to go through it properly," he said, feeling discouraged.

"Gibbs?" Greene asked. "How much of a chance is there Tony would just play hooky? None right?" he asked rhetorically, not waiting for an answer, "and we both know he was obsessing over Douglas. Why don't we pay Douglas a visit? Let's call his office and see if he's in. Maybe rattle his cage a bit, and see what falls out."

Liking that idea, Gibbs shoved the folder at McGee and said, "Good idea. Call them McGee." Picking up his coffee mug from atop his desk, he turned to Greene, "I need a refill. Going to the break room for one. You need more?"

"I never turn down free coffee," Greene said. As he followed Gibbs, he stated, "Tony's a good kid. I liked him a lot. Seems real bright and dedicated."

"Yeah, he is," Gibbs answered. Then, remembering his earlier thoughts, he surprised himself by adding, "The best agent I've ever had."

Greene studied him silently for a few moments, and then said, "We'll find him, Agent Gibbs."

"Gibbs."

"What?" Greene was confused.

"Just Gibbs, not Agent Gibbs," was the reply.

"Dan. Tony calls me Dan; you might as well, too."

Gibbs looked at Greene for a second, and smiled slightly. "Dan, then," he said, and they fell into more casual conversation as they continued on.

They had refilled their cups and were heading out of the break room, when McGee came skidding to a stop in front of them.

"Boss! Douglas didn't show up for work today!" he exclaimed, slightly out of breath.

"Put a BOLO out on him and on his car, McGee," Gibbs ordered, the coffee now sitting in his stomach like liquid lead.

"Already done," McGee said, proud of himself for anticipating Gibbs' instructions.

"I'm going to pay a house call," Greene stated, already heading for the elevator. "You can come with, if you want, Gibbs," he said to Gibbs, who was hot on his heels, with McGee trailing behind him.

"You can come with me," Gibbs answered back. "Tony's my agent."

"Murder trumps a missing person, Gibbs; and this is looking like Douglas murdered his wife," Greene rejoined.

"McGee, stay here and start looking through that file. Call me with anything you get," Gibbs said, as he stepped into the elevator with Greene, blocking McGee's entrance. As the doors shut, he turned to Greene, and with a satisfied smirk on his face, and said, "_Detective_ Greene, federal always trumps local." With that, he pushed the button that would take them to the parking garage.

They got to Douglas' house in record time, thanks to Gibbs' driving. Greene, who didn't look healthy on a good day, was now a most unattractive shade of green, with blotchy red spots on his neck and cheeks. He rather resembled an under-watered Christmas tree, a week after the holiday.

"That is the last time you're driving, Gibbs," he choked out, as they slammed to a stop in the driveway.

"Got us here fast, didn't I?" Gibbs asked, not the in the least remorseful, as he climbed out of the car.

"It's always better if one can actually form words when questioning a suspect," Greene grumbled, following Gibbs up to the front door, and waiting while he rang the bell. They could hear the bell ring, but no one answered. Gibbs used his fist to pound on the door, while Greene went to look into the front windows.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone home," Greene said, stating the obvious because it needed to be said. "Don't you think there could be someone in trouble in there?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Gibbs', who was already at work on the doorknob with a lock pick, looked up and said, "Sounds like probable cause to me," just as the lock clicked, and he opened the door.

Drawing their guns, the two men entered.

"Hello, anyone home?" Gibbs called. "This is NCIS, come on out." Legally, he was obliged to identify himself, and give a suspect an opportunity for surrender.

They paused and listened. There was no sign of movement anywhere in the house. Gibbs signaled for Greene to stay by the front door and watch the stairs which led to the upstairs, while he swept through the lower level rooms. It didn't take him long to determine there was no one on the main floor. When he rejoined Greene, shaking his head to indicate his failure, Greene indicated that he would lead the way upstairs. Once they got to the top of the stairs, they took turns, one watching the hallway, as the other checked out the rooms they encountered. Each room was empty, and showed no sign of any real use. They were furnished and decorated, but had the impersonal and generic feel of hotel rooms. When they got to the last room on the right, they both went in.

They were clearly in the master suite, this room being almost twice the size of the other five rooms. Greene had been in the room before, investigating Sarah's suicide, so he knew the lay of the land. The blue bedspread was slightly mused, and there were clothes piled on a chair, next to a fireplace. Looking around, they headed to the door that led to the master bath and went in. They stepped into a dressing area, one wall composed of built in closets, the doors of which were open. Looking in, Gibbs saw several empty hangers. Greene slid around him, and walked into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet door was slightly askew, and he pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his back pocket and slid them on, before he opened the door, only to find almost nothing in the cabinet. Deciding there was no point in maintaining silence, Greene said, "This is virtually empty. When we were here before, it was packed full of pill bottles, shaving supplies, shaving cream, lotions and what not. Looks to me like Douglas has rabbitted."

"I'll get a team over here to process the house." Gibbs pulled out his cell phone to place the call. "If we find anything, shared jurisdiction?" he asked, calling a truce to their earlier power plays.

Greene nodded in agreement, and then surprised Gibbs by saying, "You should take lead." Seeing Gibbs' face, he said with a shrug and a small smile, "Tony is your agent, and federal agents have more freedom than cops."

At that moment, Gibbs phone rang. "Boss, it's McGee," Tim said unnecessarily. "I'm sorry to bother you, but once you were gone, it occurred to me to try running a trace on Tony's phone. I got a hit. It's on, and not moving, at a rest stop in Virginia, right off Interstate 66. I could send you the GPS coordinates if you want. It'd take you about an hour to get there, from where you are."

"Do that, McGee. Looks like Douglas is on the run. We'll go take a look just as soon as someone gets here to secure the house. Keep doing what you're doing; and McGee, get Douglas' cell number and run a trace on it, too. Call me when you get something. And Tim, good work." With that, Gibbs hung up, smiling slightly at the pride he had heard in McGee's, "On it, Boss!"

Gibbs related what had happened to Greene, who offered to get a black and white over to sit and wait for the NCIS forensic team. Once that was done, they headed back to Gibbs' car, all teasing long over, both worried about what Douglas' and Tony's disappearances implied. Was Tony following him; and if so, why hadn't he called in? Did Douglas have him? Had Douglas done something to Tony? Or had something, totally unrelated, happened to him? They were both now convinced that Douglas was a murderer, and that made the possibilities even worse.

Gibbs programmed the coordinates into the car's navigational system. The forty-five minute drive was spent in a continuation of their earlier silence, although the reasons had changed slightly. Gibbs was lost in his own musings, remembering all the close calls Tony had been embroiled in over the years. He consoled himself with the thought that surely someone who had managed to escape injury while chained to a murderer, eluded a crazed female serial killer, and survived the plague would be okay when up against a lawyer, turned wife murderer. Douglas wasn't exactly a career criminal, he told himself. Greene was silently wondering what he was going to tell his captain, both about how they had misjudged Douglas, and how NCIS ended up with the lead. He knew it wouldn't matter that it was his captain who had insisted they shelve the case; it would suddenly become the fault of the detectives investigating it. Explaining how an NCIS agent ended up snooping into the case was going to be even more difficult to smooth over. They were both jolted out of their private reflections when McGee called back to tell Gibbs that Douglas' phone was about twelve feet away from Tony's, which at least confirmed the older men's worry that somehow, Tony and Douglas had ended up together.

When they got to the rest stop, there were no other vehicles in the parking lot. Pulling out his phone, Gibbs called McGee.

"Has Tony's phone moved?" he asked, although his gut told him the answer would be no.

When McGee confirmed his fears, he asked, "Can you lock into my phone and direct me towards Tony's?" he asked, knowing now they would only be retrieving abandoned phones.

"Sure thing Boss. Give me a second," and Gibbs could hear his fingers flying across his keyboard. "Okay Boss, you need to go about thirty five feet north, and then twelve feet east," he said, even as Gibbs began to move, holding the phone to his ear. A minute or so later, he said, "Stop there Boss, you should be right by it." McGee sat at his desk, shoulders slumping and looking very unhappy. Even though Gibbs hadn't said anything, McGee knew that if Tony had been there, Gibbs would have seen him by now. Things were not looking up for Tony.

Gibbs looked around, he was standing by some trees, at the edge of the grassy section of the rest stop. "The phone should be right about here," he told Greene.

"Which way is Douglas' phone, McGee?" he asked.

"Ten to twelve feet to the south of you," came the reply, and Gibbs passed the information to Greene, then told McGee he'd call him back when they had the phones.

"You look for Douglas' phone and I'll find Tony's," Gibbs said.

It didn't take them very long to find the two phones. They bagged them in the evidence bags Gibbs had grabbed before they got out of the car, placed markers where the phones had been found, and looked around to see if there was anything else of note. Not seeing anything, Gibbs pulled out his cell phone and called McGee.

"We've got the phones, but there's no sign of Douglas or Tony. I'm going to need another team out here, even though I don't think they'll find anything. While I'm stuck here waiting, put a trace on all activity on both Tony's and Douglas' credit cards and bank accounts. I want to know about all activity for the last twenty four hours," he said, as he sank down onto on of the benches scattered around the rest area.

Greene followed him over, and they sat, quietly discussing what they knew and what they just suspected. Ten minutes later, McGee called back.

"Boss, Douglas used his ATM card not more than two hours ago in Warrenton, Virginia. That's only about another forty five minutes away from where you are now. Straight down 66 and then south on Lee Highway."

Gibbs felt better, hearing McGee's words. They were getting closer. "Get that team here, ASAP. Find out everything you can about Douglas, McGee. I even want to know about the last time he picked his nose," Gibbs ordered. "What is he doing out here? And McGee, I want it yesterday," he said, by way of a farewell.

After he hung up, he once again told Greene what he had learned, and together they impatiently waited for the NCIS team to get there, so they could move on.


	9. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten:  
**

A branch slapped across Tony's face, causing him to lose his balance and tumble to the ground. He lay there a moment, chest heaving, looking at the sky through the trees. It felt so good to be still. Letting his eyes close for just a moment, he worked to even out his breathing. He began to understand how people who died of hypothermia simply fell asleep, never to wake again. He felt a little like that; the desire to just give in to his body's demand for rest was almost irresistible. 'DiNozzos aren't quitters,' he chided his unruly subconscious, and rolled to his side, gave himself a minute to readjust to the pain, then pushed himself back up on to his feet. He had no idea how long it would be until Douglas found him missing, nor did he know if the man would come looking for him. Well, he wasn't going to stand around and find out. He began to walk, at a slower pace this time, aware that his body would not tolerate more running.

The trees and underbrush were becoming denser as he walked, the natural clearings more scarce. Although this provided better cover, it made forward progress more difficult. He continued on for quite some distance, until he got to the point where each step seemed to send painful stabs up to his head, and the black spots in front of his eyes threatened to solidify, forming a black curtain that would effectively shut out the world. He needed to rest, and for more than the few minutes he dared while sitting out in the open; he needed a hiding place that would allow him to sleep for a bit. With that goal in mind, he forced himself to move forward, watching above and below for shelter as he went. Finally, on the edge of a small clearing, he found what he had been looking for; about ten feet up in a large poplar tree, some industrious hunter had built a blind. The wooden platform was almost completely obscured by the leaves of the tree, and a partial wooden wall, facing the clearing, added to the concealment. Only someone truly studying the tree tops would see it. Tony figured that Douglas was not likely to be doing that. Climbing a tree wasn't what Tony had hoped for, but the promise of sleep, safely hidden from all but the most careful eyes, made up for the supreme effort. When he crawled into the blind, he was pleasantly surprised to find a blanket of camouflage netting left behind by the hunter, which he drew over the top of him. Once he was safely ensconced, he gave in to his body's needs, and let his eyes close.

For his part, Douglas was not having a much better time of it. Unlike Tony, Douglas was not fit. The hours he daily spent sitting, coupled with his love for gourmet food, had left him soft and slightly overweight, and his belly hung over the edge of his wrinkled khaki pants. He had not exercised in far too long, and walking through a forest, pushing greenery out of his way as he went, definitely counted as strenuous physical exertion. After searching for Tony for a half hour, he sat on the trunk of a large, fallen tree, brushing away a multitude of flying insects, trying to focus and assess the situation. DiNozzo was gone, and Douglas had no way of knowing how much of a head start he had. For all he knew, DiNozzo could have already made it down to the highway and been in contact with the Sheriff's Department. That thought scared him. If that were the case, it would only be a matter of time before they found the cabin. His hiding place had suddenly become a trap. He leaped from the log and began to retrace his steps. He would have to give up on finding DiNozzo, in favor of getting away before the police arrived.

When Douglas drew near the cabin, he pulled the gun out of his pants waist and crept around the perimeter of the property, looking for any sign that he was not alone. Seeing no one, he made a mad dash from the woods to the house. As he was throwing his belongs into a suitcase, he thought about how this was becoming a disturbing pattern. His mind flashed on DiNozzo, and he remembered the knowing smirks the cop had bestowed on him, all those years ago. Douglas hadn't thought much about it then, confident that he was untouchable. Now, years later, he was on the run, and it was all because of that asshole, he told himself. He regretted not having shot DiNozzo through the head with his own gun, when he had the opportunity.

He had driven only a few miles down the highway, when another equally disturbing thought occurred to him. If DiNozzo had alerted law enforcement to him, then they would probably be looking for his car, too. Adrenaline surged through him, and desperation supplied him with a solution. Not taking time to really think the plan through, he gave the steering wheel a sharp turn to the right, and pulled to the side of the road. Putting on his flashers, he climbed out and stood beside it. Five minutes later, when a small grey Toyota Corolla approached, he waved his hands wildly at the car. Letting out his breath in relief when the car pulled off the road, a few dozen feet in front of his car, he rushed up to speak with the driver.

A well dressed middle aged man, with a kind face, rolled down the passenger window to speak with him.

"Wow, great timing," Douglas gushed. "My car broke down and I've called it in, but I really need a ride to the next town. I'm on my way back from a business trip because my wife called and said she's gone into labor. It's our first and I really want to be there. You know how it goes. I thought I'd try to rent a car in town; you never know how long it'll take to fix a car and I just can't miss this! I can come back and get the car after the baby's delivered."

The driver of the Corolla gave Douglas a smile. "I remember when my first was born, greatest day of my life. Where's home?"

"D.C." Douglas answered. "The wife's going to deliver at Georgetown."

"Then it's your lucky day!" the man said. "I'm on my way to D.C., too. Grab your bags and I'll give you a ride. Score myself some brownie points with the guy upstairs for doing a good deed."

Douglas jogged back to his car, and pulled his suitcase out. Once it was stowed in the backseat of the Corolla, and Douglas was sitting in the passenger seat, the driver asked, "You good to go?"

Douglas turned to him and smiled, saying, "Yeah, thanks. You know, it may be my lucky day, but it sure isn't yours," and then he drew Tony's gun, and shot the man in the stomach. The driver grabbed at the wound, surprise and crippling pain rooting him to the seat. Looking out the window, to make sure no other cars were around, Douglas snatched the keys from the ignition, and climbed out of the car. He hurried around to the back of the car and unlocked the trunk, relieved to find it empty. Then he went to the driver's side door, and opened it. Looking around once more to be safe, he grabbed the still groaning man under the arms, and yanked him out of the car. He dragged him back to the trunk and lifted him in, slamming the lid down as he ignored the man's pleas for help. When he got back to the front of the car, he looked in, relieved to find very little blood on the seat. Reaching into the back, intending to grab a sweater from his suitcase to put over the blood spot, he smiled when he saw a stadium blanket, neatly folded in the back window. Snatching it, he proceeded to drape it over the driver's seat, then eased himself down on top of it. Pleased that something had gone right that day, he put the keys back in the ignition and turned the car on. As he pulled back onto the highway, he ignored the slowly weakening pounding coming from the trunk.

An hour later, Douglas was driving by the rest stop where he had discarded the cell phones the night before. Looking across the highway, he saw several State Trooper cars and a dark SUV with a flashing light attached to its roof. 'Guess they found the cell phones,' he thought to himself, as he fought against the instinctual panic that threatened to overwhelm him, glad he had gotten away when he did. Now he just needed to figure out where he was going to go.

It seemed to Gibbs that the NCIS team took forever to reach the rest stop, but in actuality, they were there in forty-five minutes, thanks to the flashing lights they had used. As soon as Gibbs had given them the bagged phones, and filled them in on all the particulars of the case that he was aware of, he was back in the car, heading for Warrenton; Greene in tow.

"Gotta give you this, Gibbs; your people are sure quick, and that kid, McGee seems real good," Greene said, in between gulping for air as they weaved around a semi at a dangerously high speed.

"Yeah, he's getting there," Gibbs agreed. "Can make any computer sing, but he doesn't have the pure instincts that Tony does."

"Can't teach someone to be a true detective," Greene nodded. "It's something you're born with."

"Yeah," Gibbs grunted in response, too preoccupied to talk. He was worried about Tony. The fact that Douglas had thrown the phones away was not a good sign. It meant that the man was running scared. Gibbs knew from experience that cornered animals were dangerous. He hadn't gotten much further in his musings, when his cell phone rang again.

"Boss," McGee said, when Gibbs answered. "I've got a bunch of information for you."

Gibbs noted that the earlier excitement was gone from McGee's voice, replaced by a more grown up and serious tone. Dreading what he was about to hear, he said, "Well, spit it out."

"First off, I think I know what Douglas was doing in Warrenton. His folks have a cabin not too far from there. I'll send the address and coordinates to your phone when we hang up. I'm betting he went there to hide. Do you want me to get you a team for backup?" he asked, not even questioning whether Gibbs would be going there to investigate.

"Nah, I've got Greene with me. Together we should be fine."

"Okay, then next, the team searching Douglas' house in D.C. have reported in. When they found a couple of small dots of blood on the counter in the master bath, they sprayed luminal and found blood trace. They say there had been a large pool of it on the floor at one point, Boss," McGee said gently.

Gibbs tightened his grip on the wheel. Not commenting on the information, he asked, "They get anything else?"

"Yeah, they found a towel, covered in blood, hidden in the back of a closet. Probably the one used to clean up the floor in the bathroom," McGee volunteered.

"Get the …." Gibbs started.

"….towel down to Abby to run," McGee finished. "Already did that. She's running a DNA trace right now." He paused, then continued, "The blood was "O" positive, Boss," his voice cracking just a bit when he said the last.

Gibbs understood what McGee was implying. NCIS required all agents to know the basic medical information for their teammates, in case of emergency. Both McGee and Gibbs knew that Tony's blood group was "O" positive. "Lots of people are "O" positive, Tim," Gibbs said gruffly, although the use of McGee's first name was his way of telling McGee that he understood.

Greene had been listening in on Gibbs' side of the conversation. He hadn't been able to tell what was being discussed until Gibbs mentioned the blood type. When he saw Gibbs hands clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, and then noticed a vein pulsing on Gibbs' forehead, he knew that blood must have been found somewhere connected to the case, and that it matched Tony's blood type.

"One last thing," McGee said. "Local LEO's found Tony's car. It was parked in the lot of a restaurant just a couple of blocks away from Douglas' house. The restaurant owner said it was there last night when he was closing up, but he didn't think that much about it. The car was locked up, and there didn't seem to be any sign of anything hinky, and yes, I had it towed to Abby." There was another pause, and then, "I haven't really told her anything yet, Boss, but when she sees Tony's car, she's going to freak."

"How long is the DNA testing going to take?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't really know."

"Go on down there, McGee. She needs to know, before the computer spits out Tony as a match. Transfer your calls to her lab, and stay with her," he said, rubbing his right temple with a hand he had wrenched free. He knew Abby would take the news badly, and was glad McGee was there to help her through it. Not for the first time recently, he began to doubt the validity of his rule number twelve.

"Thanks, Boss. I'm sending you the coordinates for the Douglas cabin right now," McGee said.

"Tim, good work," Gibbs said, and then hung up, eager to get the address plugged into the GPS.

McGee hung up, transferred his phone, and hurried down to Abby's lab. When he got downstairs, he stood in the doorway for a few seconds, indulging himself, as he just watched her. Abby was standing in front of her Major Mass Spec, dressed head to toe in black. She wore intimidating heavy black platform boots, a black leather spiked collar, multiple chains hung around both her neck and hips, and a skin tight black t-shirt – her multiple tattoos jutting out from the shirt at her neck, arms and small of the back. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful. At the moment, she was engaged in a one way conversation.

"Listen up, Mister," she said to the machine, "Timmy's counting on me to get him these results for the case he's working on; and I'm counting on you to help me. I've got other things to work on today, so you better hop to," she ordered, hands on her hips, and lips pursed, as if the machine had sassed her back.

McGee cleared his throat, to alert Abby of his presence.

"Timmy!" she trilled, as she ran towards him, arms outstretched.

McGee would have liked to think this greeting was a result of their long standing, on again/off again relationship, but he knew this was how she greeted everyone she cared about.

"Careful of the body, Abs. It's the only one I've got," he humpfed, as she latched on to him. "How's it going down here?" he asked, steeling himself for the impending conversation.

"Not so good," Abby said. "I was expecting the Major to have already fed the information to my computer for the DNA match, but he seems a little slow," and before McGee could interject anything, she launched into a long winded theory on why the spectrometer was not cooperating.

She had just slowed down, and McGee was getting ready to explain to her what was going on, when an alarm chimed on her computer.

"It's a match!" Abby exclaimed moving to check the results.

McGee reached out for her, saying, "Abby wait!" But he was a beat too slow. Abby was at her computer.

"No! That can't be right! No way!" Abby exclaimed hoarsely. Then she whirled on McGee. "What's going on Tim? What haven't you told me?" With tears in her eyes, she said accusingly, "The computer says the blood is Tony's!"


	10. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven:**

McGee held a shaking Abby in his arms, glad the hailstorm of accusations was over. Abby had been justified in her anger. She should never have learned that Tony was in trouble through the results of one of her own lab tests. When she had called him a coward, he hadn't even tried to offer up a defense. She was right. He should have gone down to see her the minute he got back to the office, but he hadn't wanted to see her like she was now. He felt guilty about purposely avoiding the inevitable. It was just that lately, they seemed like bumper cars at a carnival, being slammed on all sides, over and over again; beginning with Vance breaking up the team, and ending with Ziva's refusal to come back to D.C. Now Tony was missing – it was just too much. He would have gone to tell her soon, he told himself. He just hadn't expected her to get the test results that quickly. 'Should have, would have, could have,' he said to himself. None of his excuses did Abby any good. Instead of sheltering her, he had ended up hurting her worse.

"I'm so sorry, Abs," he said, for the one hundredth time, unable to stop himself. The words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. Maybe that was why Gibbs had a rule against apologies, he realized. The words did no good; it was only actions that healed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and hugged her closer to him, offering the only kind of comfort he could.

"I know," Abby said softly, looking up at him. She took just a few more moments, then squeezed him one more time and said, "You need to get back to work, Timmy. Gibbs needs help finding Tony. And he will find him. He won't quit until he does." The conviction in her voice humbled him. She was right about that, though; Gibbs wouldn't stop until he had Tony. McGee just hoped Tony was still alive when that happened.

When Tony woke up, he rubbed his eyes, trying to bring the world into focus. He could tell it was much later in the afternoon. The woods had grown darker as the angle of the sun cast long, deep shadows upon the ground. The cicadas and crickets had started their nightly concert, and the air was beginning to chill. Tony shivered. The light weight leather jacket he had donned to break into Douglas' house was not going to provide much protection against an entire night in the out of doors. 'Better get moving,' he told himself sternly, willing his tired limbs to move, and ignoring the nausea that still plagued him. Shimmying down the tree was much easier than his ascent had been. Standing very still next to the tree, he listened for a moment, making sure he heard nothing that seemed out of place. His stomach rumbled, and to his own ears, it sounded louder than thunder. He was going to need water and something to eat soon, he knew. He wasn't going to find it here. He had to get out of the woods, and preferably, before the night set in.

When he had run into the woods, his primary concern had been evading Douglas. The concussion had made clear thinking difficult, and he'd had no real plan, just the instinctual need to escape. The sleep he had just gotten made thinking a little easier. Looking around, he realized he had no idea where he really was, or how to find his way out. He couldn't continue wandering aimlessly, like Hansel and Gretel, lost in the forest. The only logical course of action was to backtrack. There had to be a way to reach a road from the cabin. He would just have to be careful, he told himself, keep his eyes and ears open. He doubted that Douglas would still be in the woods, looking for him. It had been several hours now. He was much more likely to be back at the cabin, hoping and waiting for Tony to come back in that direction. Tony tried to think of a better alternative, but came up with nothing. He had to find food and water or he, himself, would finish what Douglas had begun.

Gibbs was in a foul mood as he handed over the coordinates to Greene, to input into the GPS tracker. When Gibbs had learned that Tony was most likely injured, his need to protect had mushroomed into desperation. He didn't know what had happened at Douglas' house, but he did know that Tony would never have gone with Douglas willingly. It made sense that Tony had been injured too badly to put up much resistance. He had wondered about that earlier, and dismissed the notion as counterproductive, but now it was back, staring him in the face. They had to find him, and they had to do it now. Night would be there soon, making it even more difficult to search.

"Douglas' place is only a few miles from here," Greene exclaimed, excitedly. "Slow down, you don't want to go shooting past it. I'll let you know when we're there." After Gibbs backed off the accelerator, Greene asked, "How do you want to play this?" They needed to talk about this before they got there, he thought. Gibbs may have masked his face, but Greene could sense the blinding fury that was driving him. He hadn't worked with the man before today, and didn't know how much control he possessed. He didn't want Gibbs going all cowboy on him, once they got near Douglas.

"Just like before. You go around to the back and cover that entrance – I go to the front door and knock. I don't want him hurt. If he doesn't have Tony there, we need Douglas to be able to tell us where to find him. Dead men don't talk," was Gibbs terse reply.

Scant minutes later, they were pulling up the gravel drive that led to the cabin, having almost missed the entrance because of the trees obscuring it. It was the perfect place to hide, Gibbs realized. The house was close to a mile off the road, buried in dense woods. There didn't appear to be any other house for miles around. The sound of the tires crunching over the rock fueled his anxiety. It was so loud and out of place, he was sure that Douglas could hear them coming. As they neared the house, Gibbs looked around, searching for Douglas' car, of which there was no sign. He parked the company car in front of the house and leaped out. Waiting for Greene, who moved considerably slower than him, Gibbs scanned the area. The house had been built in a small clearing that had obviously been carved out for just that purpose. There was a small garage to the left of the house, with a cement area centered under the basketball hoop that had been attached to the face of the garage, but other than that one nod towards modern living, the area was basically untouched by civilization. Trees and bushes crowded up next to the house, and forest was all you could see when you looked around. Greene was out of the car now, and moving around to the back. Gibbs waited a moment longer, to allow Greene to get in position, and then approached the front door.

He knocked loudly, calling out as he did, "Hello, anyone home?"

He paused after he spoke, listening for movements from within. He wasn't sure if he would be able to hear anything; the logs the cabin was built from were large, and probably acted as very effective sound buffers. After knocking and calling again, he tried the door. The handle turned easily, and the door creaked open. Calling out to Greene, "Door's unlocked, I'm going in," he stepped through the threshold.

The furnishings in the cabin were old, but had been well cared for. A large red and black plaid sofa sat in the center of an open great room, and two overstuffed, red easy chairs surrounded it. A thick, rough hewn mantel hung over the large fireplace, and framed old pictures of two children, a boy and a girl, had been placed lovingly upon it. Pillows and throw blankets covered the furniture, and yellowed children's paintings of deer, rabbits, and other animals had been tacked to the walls. The entire place suggested a happy family lived there, and Gibbs found himself wondering how Douglas could have turned out so wrong. Greene came into the room from a door on the far wall.

"Back door was unlocked too," he said, by way of an explanation. "It opened up into a small kitchen with an eat-in area. Looks like Douglas was here. There was a bag of food, some mac and cheese boxes, energy bars, and chips, sitting on the counter. New milk and juice in the frig," he said as he, too, looked around the room. The living room was flanked by two sleeping lofts, accessed by ladders which extended from the great room to the balconies. Gibbs was already climbing up one, to check it out.

"Damn it!" he cursed, when he got to the top. "Someone's been up here sleeping. One of the twin beds is unmade, and there's a t-shirt and some socks on the floor next to it, but I don't see any luggage. I think we may have missed him again! There doesn't seem to be any sign of another person being here with him though."

"Let's go look at the garage," Greene suggested calmly, although he shared Gibbs' frustration. Douglas seemed to always be one step ahead of them.

When they got to the garage, Gibbs was disappointed to find no car in it. He hadn't really expected to, but he had held on to a sliver of hope. His phone rang before he could really start to search the space. It was McGee.

"Boss, Abby got the test results back." McGee paused, and swallowed. It was still hard to say out loud. "They confirmed that the blood on the towel was Tony's."

Both McGee and Gibbs were silent for a moment. Then McGee asked, "Did you get the location I sent to you?"

"We're there now. Someone's been here, but there's no sign of Tony or Douglas now," Gibbs replied tensely.

"Guess we hope someone spots his Lexus," McGee sighed.

While Gibbs had been talking, Greene had been wandering through the garage. Gibbs watched as he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, and bent to pick something up, using the cloth to prevent any contamination from his fingers. When he saw the bloody ropes Greene was holding he said, "Gotta go, McGee. Call when you have something."

Tony walked as quietly as he could; his eyes constantly scanning the surrounding trees and shrubbery. He had been surprised to discover that he could follow his own trail. Apparently people didn't come this way often, and the broken twigs on the bushes, and the displaced fallen leaves, left him a clear path to follow. 'Better than bread crumbs,' he told himself, remembering his earlier thoughts of the children's story, Hansel and Gretel. His discovery had made him hyper-alert. If he had found his trail, there was a chance that Douglas had also. 'Probably not,' he tried to assure himself. 'You're a trained investigator, DiNozzo,' he lectured silently.

Finally Tony could see a structure ahead, as he looked through the trees. 'That must be the house,' he thought, as he came to an immediate stop. Crouching down, he listened. Hearing no crunch of leaves, or swishing of branches, he started to move forward slowly. When he got right to the edge of the clearing made to accommodate the house, he once again stilled, and looked around. There was no light spilling from the windows at the back of the cabin. Staying tucked low, Tony made a mad dash to the side of the cabin that faced away from the garage. Once there, he began to creep around to the front. When he got to the front edge of the house, he froze. Parked in front of the house, driver seat door left wide open, was a dark grey Dodge Charger. Tony didn't need to see the driver to know what that meant. Gibbs was here somewhere. The adrenaline that had been sustaining him, enabling him to push his body to its limits, instantly drained from his  
body, no longer necessary. He walked over to the car, and leaned against the side, content to merely wait.

Gibbs and Greene stood looking at the rope. "Looks like it was sawed off," Greene finally commented.

"By who, is the question," Gibbs answered. "I've got an evidence bag out in the car, we can put it in."

They both headed for the door, Greene still clutching the rope. As they walked out of the door, Gibbs stopped when he saw the shape of a man, his back to them, leaning against the hood of the car. Drawing his gun, he motioned for Greene to be still, then focusing only on whether the man moved, Gibbs crept up to the other side of the car.

"Don't move," Gibbs commanded, his gun held high, as the person began to turn.

"I was hoping you'd be more glad to see me, Boss," Tony quipped, a broad smile on his face.

Gibbs stared. Tony stood before him, dried blood staining the entire front of his shirt and jacket and plastering his hair to his head; his wrists and hands wrapped in dirty and shredded cloth.

"I've seen worse things," Gibbs managed to squeeze out. Then he was moving towards Tony, catching him in a bear hug. If the hug went on just a trifle too long, neither Tony and Gibbs, nor Greene commented on it.


	11. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve:**

Tony just let himself collapse in Gibbs' arms, the strain of the day finally overwhelming him. He was content to bury his face in Gibbs' shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee and the musk that was unique to Gibbs. He had wanted to be here innumerable times before, had dreamed about it even, but none of his fantasies had ever played out quite like this.

"Let's get you sitting down, Tony," Gibbs eventually said, breaking the spell, and starting time again. He repositioned his hands, bringing them under Tony's arms, and helped the younger man ease down onto the ground. Leaning him back into the side of the car, he studied Tony more carefully. There was a large, angry looking gash on the top of his head, which had clearly been the source of most of the blood. His face and neck were covered in scratches and small cuts, and a few bruises were visible through the dried blood. His eyes were too glassy, the pupils dilated. He couldn't see what was under the rags tied to his hands, but he assumed they were the cuts that caused the ropes to be soaked in blood. The leather jacket Tony wore was filthy, a combination of dirt and blood, and his black jeans had a long tear on one leg. "You've looked better DiNozzo," he cracked.

"Yeah, well, it's not everyday I go on an extended hike through the woods," Tony responded.

"Hey Kid," Greene said, coming up beside the two other men.

"Dan," Tony looked up in surprised. "Don't tell me you and Gibbs have joined forces. I'm surprised you're both still alive," he said, remembering how the older detective's demeanor had reminded him of Gibbs.

"I'm surprised I lived through his driving!" was Greene's response.

"You have to build up a tolerance to it, that's for sure," Tony agreed.

"So, you didn't shoot Douglas, did you Boss?" Tony asked Gibbs, looking around for some sign of Douglas.

"We missed him, Tony. It looks like he's gone," Gibbs growled.

"That's not good," Tony said. "He's getting desperate, just reacting, not thinking. Otherwise, I don't think he'd have grabbed me. It didn't make sense, and the Douglas I remember always had a plan, and an easy answer in place for every question I asked him." Then something occurred to Tony. His already white face paled even more. "Boss, he's got my gun. He's armed now," Tony managed to choke out.

"We'll worry about that later. Right now we need to get you to an emergency room," Gibbs decreed.

"No way! No hospital. I'm fine. I just need some water, food and a shower, and then I'll be good to go. I'm not letting him get away. I've been after him for too many years, Gibbs," Tony said, his chin jutting out, and his face taking on his most stubborn expression.

"Kid, you've got a concussion and could probably use a few stitches," Greene interjected, before Gibbs could snap out the reply that was forming on his lips.

"I'm not letting someone else get this bastard," Tony hissed, with a vehemence that surprised both Gibbs and Greene.

Gibbs sighed. He understood where Tony was coming from. When you got caught up in a case, when it consumed your thoughts, and when you bled for it, letting someone else take it over was unacceptable. "We're going to at least get Ducky to look you over, DiNozzo. We'll see what he has to say, and then we can talk about the next step. For now, let's get you in the car. I've got some bottled water and energy bars in the trunk; I'll get them as soon as you're settled," he said, reaching down a hand to Tony, helping him stand back up.

Once Tony was sitting in the passenger seat, at Dan's insistence, Gibbs got the stuff out of the trunk, cracking open a bottle of water, knowing Tony would have a hard time doing that with the stuff he had wrapped around his hands, and gave it to Tony. He stood watching for a moment, while Tony guzzled half of the bottle in one tilt of his head. Going back to the trunk, he got another bottle, which he handed to Tony, and then he said, "I've got to call McGee, then we'll head back."

McGee was down in Abby's lab again, when the call from Gibbs came in. He stood listening to Gibbs speak. As soon as he asked, "Is he okay, Boss?" and blew out a puff of air at the response, Abby wrapped herself around him, understanding what had been said.

"Bring him home, Gibbs," she called into the phone pressed to McGee's ear.

"Tell Abby, I'm on it," Gibbs said to McGee, "and have the forensic team get out here as soon as they can. Make sure they cover both the garage and the house. Tony was tied up in the garage. We've got the rope used to tie him up. It's already been moved, so there isn't any point in putting it back. I'll bring it in when I come. And McGee, tell Ducky I need him to stay and check out Tony. He's got a few nasty cuts and a concussion, but won't go to the hospital."

"On it Boss," McGee said, echoing Gibbs' earlier words, and as he hung up, he wrapped his arms around Abby.

Greene had climbed into the back seat while Gibbs was on the phone, and he and Tony were comparing notes about what had happened. Gibbs got in just in time to hear Tony tell about being hit over the head and coming to, tied up in the garage. When Tony told how he'd escaped, Gibbs felt inordinately proud of him. Tony never quit; of course that's how this whole thing started, he reminded himself. Tony couldn't let the old case die. Thinking about Tony's investigation reminded him of something.

"We're gonna have a talk about you going in without backup when this is all over, DiNozzo," Gibbs promised, as he started the car, and headed back down the gravel road. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony wince. "And about the term 'breaking and entering'," he added.

Tony had expected no less, and was just relieved that Gibbs seemed content to let the issue wait. "I know, Boss," he said, unwilling to risk irritating Gibbs further by apologizing. Then, to change the subject, he asked, "So, where are we exactly."

Gibbs told Tony about everything that was happening from NCIS's end as they pulled out onto the highway. Tony listened intently, until it became clear that none of it was getting them any closer to Douglas, and then he let his eyes shut. He had just drifted into sleep when the car screeched to a halt, the seatbelt keeping him from hurdling too far forward. He eyes popped open, and he saw they had pulled over on the side of the road.

Gibbs had his cell phone out, and was demanding of someone, "What was the license plate number on Douglas' car?"

Tony glanced into the back seat at Greene, and saw that he was staring out the back window. There was a dark blue Lexus sedan parked a few dozen feet behind them, the windows rolled up and seemingly empty.

"That's his car," Gibbs said, as he looked to his left, making sure the way was safe to open his car door. The three men climbed out, pulling on the gloves Gibbs had handed out, and headed back to check on the car. Looking in through the window, Tony could see that the keys were still in the ignition. When he tried the passenger door, it opened right up. He leaned in and looked around the car. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he reached across the seat and flipped the switch that opened up the trunk. He pulled back out, and walked back to it, Gibbs and Greene right behind him. A blanket lay in the trunk. Gibbs reached in and pulled it out. The blanket and the carpet in the trunk were covered in blood.

"I hope that's my blood," Tony choked out, dreading the alternative. Neither Greene, nor Gibbs replied.

Gibbs was now looking around the car, searching for some reason for it to be parked on the roadside. All the tires seemed fine. He slid into the driver's side and turned the ignition key. The car started right up. Listening for a few moments for any sound that suggested engine trouble, he heard nothing. He had just turned off the car again, when he heard a loud thump, and the car shook. Leaping out, he saw Tony, leaning against the side of the car, head down, body shaking and cradling his hand. Gibbs eyes tracked to the side of the car, a fist sized dent now graced the rear passenger door.

Arching up an eyebrow, Gibbs inquired, "Feel better now?"

Tony turned an almost feral face towards him, his eyes flashing dangerously. "It isn't right. He just keeps getting away. Two women are dead, and he's in the fucking breeze. Bet he figured out we'd be searching for the car and just abandoned it. That probably means he's in someone else's car and we'll have a hell of a time finding him now!"

Gibbs could see Tony's anger grow as he spoke, and it now loomed large, threatening to consume him. He reached up, grabbing Tony's chin, and forcing Tony to look him in the eye. "He won't get away, Tony. I promise you that. You're too good a detective and you've got me and Greene on your six now. We'll catch him."

Gibbs' eyes cut into him like icy blue daggers, forcing him away from the emotional ledge he'd found himself on. "Yeah, I know," he said, trying to convince himself of this as he spoke.

"He's running out of options, Tony. He's run from his home and now, from his hide out. He's had to dump his car. There isn't a lot left for him," Gibbs assured him, as he released Tony's face. "Come on, let's get back to D.C. The forensic team will arrange to have the car brought in, but I don't think we'll find anything we aren't expecting," Gibbs said, reaching out to give Tony's shoulder a quick squeeze, and they rejoined Greene, who was waiting by Gibbs' car.

It was dark by the time they pulled into the Navy Yard. Tony had fallen asleep not long after they had pulled back onto the road, leaving Douglas' car behind. Greene sat in the back seat, saying little, contenting himself in watching the two men in the front seat. Although Gibbs still drove too fast, Greene was aware that he was censoring himself, taking fewer hair raising turns, avoiding grinding stops. He constantly glanced to his right, checking on Tony, as if reassuring himself that the younger man was still there, his shoulders relaxing down every time he looked at the sleeping agent.

"How long has he worked for you?" Greene asked at one point.

"Seven years," came the answer.

"That's a long time," Greene commented.

"Yeah," Gibbs said, and then sank back into his own thoughts. Seven years; it did sound like a long time when you said it out loud. But thinking back over the past few years, it didn't feel like a long time. It seemed like just yesterday that Tony had arrived from Baltimore, brash and cocky, filled with irrepressible good humor. In that time other agents had come and gone – Vivian, Kate, Lee and now Ziva, but through it all, Tony had remained, the one constant. Somewhere along the line, Tony had moved from being the irritating junior agent, to his senior agent, skilled, trustworthy, and indispensible. He hadn't felt complete this afternoon, he realized with a start. Did Tony feel the same way, he wondered, smiling slightly as he remembered Tony leaning against the car outside Douglas' cabin, content to wait for him to appear. The grin on Tony's face when he turned and saw Gibbs; he wanted to keep seeing that grin for the rest of his life, he shocked himself by thinking.

"Yeah," he said out loud again.

"Pardon?" Greene asked, looking at Gibbs and feeling like he had just missed out on an entire conversation.

"Um, nothing," Gibbs stuttered out.

"You know Gibbs, good partners are hard to find. You gotta keep 'em close," Greene offered, watching for Gibbs' reaction in the rear view mirror, his face taking on a speculative expression when Gibbs' face softened and a small smirk appeared on his face.

"I was just thinking that, myself," Gibbs replied. "You're pretty smart for an old man," he said.

"Watch who you're calling old, Gibbs. Not much difference in age between us, I'd bet," Greene snapped.

Gibbs just grunted, and then refocused on getting them back to D.C. in one piece.

In the meantime, Douglas was also lost in his own thoughts. He had pulled back into the city three hours ago, but didn't know where to go. He was presently sitting in a run down diner, nursing his fifth cup of coffee and playing with the rapidly congealing food on the plate in front of him. He couldn't go back to his house or office, and now he was driving a stolen car with a dead body in the trunk. He had stopped at another rest stop, right before pulling into the city, and had pulled the wallet out of the dead man's back pocket. He now knew his name was Walter Summers, and that he lived in D.C. Douglas had pulled out the driver's license, credit cards, and three hundred and twelve dollars he'd found in the wallet. He'd thrown away the pictures, which showed a smiling family, Summers planted squarely in the middle – they weren't going to do him any good.

Sighing, he signaled to the waitress that he was finished. Fishing Summers' credit card out of his own wallet, he paid his bill and walked slowly out to his new car. Getting into the Corolla, he just sat, trying to figure out what to do next. It was night now, and he was tired. He knew he had to get as far away from D.C. as he could, preferably out of the country. He didn't know how long it would be until Summers was reported missing, and even though there was nothing to link him to the disappearance, he would not be able to use the credit cards for much longer. Deciding that he needed sleep before he could do anything else, he turned on the car and headed for the small motel he'd seen earlier. Plunking down Douglas' card again, he booked himself a room for the night.

When Gibbs, Greene and Tony got into the elevator at NCIS headquarters, Gibbs punched the button that would take them down to Ducky. Watching him, Tony prepared to offer up an argument, but his words died on his lips when Gibbs turned to glare at him. Greene said he needed to check in with his captain, and Gibbs offered him the use of his desk. So, when the doors opened up onto the morgue, Gibbs grasped Tony's left elbow and propelled him off the elevator, leaving Greene to ride up alone to the bullpen.

"My dear boy," Ducky exclaimed when he saw Tony. "Come have a seat on this whist I take a better look at you," he said, indicating one of the stainless steel autopsy tables.

Tony, who knew there was no point in arguing, complied, actually glad to sit back down.

"You really must learn to duck, Anthony," the older man said, as he gently parted the hair on Tony's head for a better look at the gash caused by the lamp's base. "This cut is fairly deep, and probably would have benefited from stitches several hours ago. It's also filthy. I need to clean it and give you a shot of antibiotics to stave off any infection. What caused it?" he inquired.

"Let's just say I saw the light, Ducky," Tony quipped, and then went on to explain about the lamp.

"Well, that would certainly do this," Ducky said, as he swabbed lightly at Tony's head with a damp wash cloth. Once the wound was clean enough to suit the doctor, he bathed it in antiseptic cream, and said, "I'm hesitant to put stitched into it now. It's scabbed completely over, and I'd have to open it back up to do so. You'll have a pretty impressive scar, but your hair will hide it. Now, let's take a look at what your rather unique dressings are hiding on your hands."

When Ducky got the ragged scarf and shredded cloth from the apron unwound from Tony's wrists, pulling open partially healing scabs and making them bleed again, Gibbs had to fight back the urge to gasp. "Oh Anthony," Ducky muttered quietly. Tony's wrists were a mess. They were rubbed raw from the friction of the ropes, and deep cuts crisscrossed the angry looking flesh, remnants of where the vise had cut more than just the rope. Gibbs had no idea how Tony had even been able to use his hands, aware of the pain that every movement must have caused. Once again, Ducky gently cleaned the wounded areas, then treated them with ointment, and redressed them in clean gauze.

Next, Ducky tilted Tony's head up and looked at him closely. Shining a light into his eyes, he frowned over what he saw. "You have quite the concussion, Anthony. I'll bet you've been experiencing nausea and headaches," he stated, watching Tony's face for confirmation, knowing the younger man would not verbally admit to the symptoms. When Tony turned his eyes away, he knew he had been right. "You really should go to the hospital for x-rays," then held up his hand, silencing the rebuttal he knew Tony was about to make. "But since I know you won't, I must caution you not to be alone tonight. Someone needs to be there, in case the symptoms get worse. You need to get cleaned up and into bed as quickly as possible. Sleep will probably be the best medicine for you now. Hang on while I give you that shot, then as your doctor, I'm ordering you to bed," Ducky decreed sternly, as he prepared the needle.

Gibbs watched as Ducky plunged the needle into Tony's arm. Then said, "Okay, that's done. Thanks Ducks. Come on DiNozzo, we're leaving."

"Um, Boss," Tony said, confused. "Where are we going?"

"My place. You heard Ducky. You need someone with you, and I'm not willing to spend the night with my feet hanging off the end of your sofa. I've got the spare bedroom," he said, his voice indicating that Tony had asked a dumb question.

"We need to keep looking for Douglas," Tony objected stubbornly, leaping to his feet.

"Where would you suggest we do that DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked. "He's probably gone to ground for the night, too. There's an APB out on him. If anyone spots him, I'll get a call. The best thing you can do now is get some sleep. Then we can look at everything with fresh eyes in the morning," he stated, effectively ending the discussion. "Let's go up and see Greene, Abby, and McGee, then get the hell out of here," he said as he stepped behind Tony. With one hand pressing into the space between Tony's shoulder blades, he gently steered him towards the elevator, eager to get Tony out of the building and into a bed, so that he could start to heal.


	12. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: **

They rode up to the bullpen in silence; Tony slumped against the wall of the elevator, too tired to stand up straight. Since Ducky had ordered him to bed, and Gibbs had insisted that he would obey, he felt no need to continue the pretense of being just fine. When the bell pinged, indicating they had arrived, Gibbs asked, "You ready for this? Abby's up here," he warned.

"As ready as I going to be tonight," Tony responded, knowing he would be accosted the minute she saw him.

As the doors to the elevator opened, they were both treated to a squealed, "Tonyyyyyyyy!" Followed by the thumping of heavy boots, as Abby ran towards them.

Tony stepped out of the elevator as quickly as he could, and moved to the side, so there would be a solid wall behind him. When Abby launched herself at him, he allowed himself to lean back into the wall, using it to help him stay upright. "Easy Abby," he managed to say, as she clung to him like a limpet. "Wounded here," he pointed out, as he wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I was so worried. When I learned the blood on the towel was yours, I totally freaked," she explained.

Tony had no idea what towel she was talking about, but wasn't about to ask. "Still in one piece, Abs. Just a little banged up," he soothed.

"You've got some explaining to do, mister," she said, as she punched him in the arm, and then eased the hurt by pressing a kiss to the spot she had just hit.

"Tomorrow, Abs. Right now I just want to curl up in a bed and sleep for a hundred years," Tony said.

Hearing that, Abby whirled on Gibbs, who stood by his desk talking to McGee and Greene. "Why haven't you taken him home, Gibbs?" she demanded, totally ignoring the fact that she would have been livid had Gibbs not brought Tony up to see her. "He needs to be in bed," she decreed, suddenly a medical expert.

Gibbs wasn't about to argue with her. "Working on it, Abs. Just needed to check out a couple of things up here, then I'll get him home," he assured her.

"He shouldn't be alone, Gibbs," she said sternly, placing her hands on her hips.

"Didn't intend to let him be, Abby. I'm going to take him to my house; he can use the spare room."

"Awww, that's so sweet," Abby gushed, and raced over to Gibbs to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Bemused, Greene took all this in. He could see why Tony wouldn't even entertain the notion of leaving NCIS. They were a diverse group - a black clad goth, a shy, tweedy computer geek, a slick and showy player, and a rough and tumble retired Marine; and yet, the genuine affection they felt for each other shone through. He looked over at Gibbs, who was once again surreptitiously, watching Tony, and hid his smile. That was a whole different story, he thought; not even sure if the two men were aware of it. Shaking himself out of his musings, he watched the young forensic scientist, who was now fussing affectionately at McGee.

"I helped find him, you know," he said to Abby, unable to resist becoming a part of the fun.

"And I thank you kindly," Abby said, as she reached out to give him a hug, too.

"We don't do this over at METRO," he said, laughing as he hugged Abby back. "Course, we don't have any detectives as pretty as you," he added.

"Oh, aren't you the sweet talker," she said, batting her eyes outrageously at him and putting on a heavy southern accent.

Gibbs had watched the exchange with amusement. "I hate to break up this love fest," Gibbs said, "but I'm going to take Tony home now. What did your captain say, Greene?" he asked as he prepared to go.

"Apparently he and your boss have talked, and we're going to work this together, with you all taking the lead. Guess you're stuck with me," he smirked, glad he wouldn't have to take any personal days, because he had already planned to if the captain had called him off. He had no intention of not seeing this through to the end. "What time do you want me here, tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"By eight," Gibbs called over his shoulder, already walking towards the elevator, a tired Tony in tow. When the elevator arrived, he gently nudged Tony in.

Douglas stood in the open doorway and looked at the motel room. A single bed was shoved into one corner, a shabby, faded bedspread stretched out over its top. Next to it stood a nightstand, which looked like it might have come from the discount section at IKEA twenty years ago. A dresser, with dark peeling veneer sat across from the bed; an old box tube TV, from the 1980's, its useless antenna bunny-earring out from the top, sat upon it. The TV seemed too nice for the room. He didn't want to even step into the room, but couldn't see how he had many options. This was the kind of place where no one asked any questions, and that was exactly what he needed. Lifting up the suitcase that had slipped from his fingers when he had looked in at his new accommodations, he walked forward, closing the door behind him.

He set his luggage on the dresser, hoping it was up to the additional weight, and then crossed to the bed. Looking down at it, he debated the pros and cons of pulling back the bed cover. If the bedspread looked this bad, what would the sheets be like, he wondered. Deciding he wanted as many barriers as possible between him and the mattress, he sat and toed off his shoes. Then, slinging his legs up onto the bed, he stretched out, his arm beneath his head. As he lay there, staring up at the crumbling popcorn treatment on the water stained ceiling, he tried to come up with a workable plan. The Corolla would probably only be safe to drive for another day. He had seen the pictures in Summers' wallet. There was a family that would worry about him, and report him missing. By the day after tomorrow, the police would be looking for Summers, and his car. He could drive across the Canadian border in a day, he mused, but wasn't sure if that was the  
best solution. What would he do there, and how would he support himself? What he really needed was a new identity. He fell asleep as he was scanning through the names of all the people he had defended over the years, trying to think of someone who would be able to help him, for the right price.

"Well, are you going in, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, as Tony stood in front of the closed door to his house. "You know it's unlocked."

"Thought I should wait for you," Tony replied, as Gibbs caught up to him, carrying a pizza, the only food Tony claimed he was hungry for.

"Didn't think you had any problem entering an empty house," Gibbs said pointedly.

Tony sighed, he'd known it was coming; this was going to be the lecture about going into Douglas' house, illegally and on his own. He just wished Gibbs would have waited until after he'd had some pizza, not sure he'd still be able to swallow when it was over. He opened the door, and stepped in; praying Gibbs would get sidetracked once they got inside. Gibbs brushed past him and walked through the living room. "Coming?" he asked, as he paused at the door which led into the kitchen. Tony didn't bother answering, he just followed obediently behind.

Gibbs tossed the pizza on the beautifully crafted oak table, placed under the window which looked out into the back yard, and went to the cupboard to pull out plates. As Tony sat down, he ran his hand over the carving on the edges of the table, and wondered if this was a relic of Gibbs' past, back before he took up boat building.

"Milk, coffee, or water?" Gibbs asked, as he put the carafe from the coffee maker under the tap, filling it in preparation for making a pot.

"Water's good," Tony answered, in no hurry to make conversation, wanting to put off the inevitable.

Gibbs just nodded, and continued to prepare his coffee. Once finished, he reached up into the cupboard again, and withdrew a glass. He filled it with water, and then added some ice cubes from the refrigerator, before taking it over to the table and handing it to Tony, along with the plates.

"Go ahead, dig in," he ordered, gesturing towards the pizza.

Tony didn't need to be told twice. Opening the lid, he paused to inhale deeply, letting the mixed aroma of spicy pepperoni and tomato sauce waft up at him. He didn't just love the way pizza tasted; he adored everything about it, the way it smelled, the feel of the cheese as he pulled strings of it loose from a piece, even the play of colors on an uncut pie. When he was little he had tried to explain to his mother how it was the most nutritious food ever invented, satisfying every step in the food pyramid, although she had never bought into his argument, preferring the elegant offerings provided by their various cooks. Maybe that was why he liked it so much, he mused. It was his delicacy, a rare treat from his youth. Putting a piece in his mouth, "S'good," he moaned, as the flavors burst in his mouth. With that, any reserve or decorum he had been hanging onto slid away. Within mere minutes, he had wolfed down three quarters of the large pizza. When his brain caught up to his stomach, and he realized how full he was, he pushed back his plate and looked across the table at Gibbs.

Gibbs was just sitting there, empty plate in front of him, coffee cup in hand, and amused expression on his face.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Tony asked him, after he had swallowed his last bite.

"I will now," Gibbs answered. "I was afraid to get my hands too near the pizza, for fear you'd eat them, too."

"Only if they were covered in sauce and cheese," Tony sassed, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Gibbs helped himself to a couple of pieces, surprised to discover he wasn't really hungry. He hadn't had anything since the sandwiches he and Greene had eaten while on the road, but the pizza was just sitting in his stomach, heavy as a rock. He didn't know if it was caused from the residual tension he had felt all day as they had searched for Tony and Douglas, or if it was a response to sitting across the table from a Tony who was draped in bandages, and still covered in his own dried blood. Since there was nothing he could do about the former, he decided to tackle the latter.

"Why don't you go up and take a shower? I'll get you a clean t-shirt and some sweats to put on when you're through. Use the bathroom in the master bedroom. I'm not sure if the other one has shampoo and soap in it. The towels are in the cabinet under the sink, and there should be a new toothbrush there as well."

"That'd be great," Tony answered, and headed upstairs.

Tony had been to Gibbs' house before. He'd even stayed there a few times, after he had been injured or when he was having problems with his apartment. He liked Gibbs' house because it was the polar opposite of the one in which he had grown up. The furniture wasn't beautiful, covered in silks and decorated with ornate tassels, but it was comfortable. The tables weren't laden with objets d'art that had no meaning for anyone, but rather held framed pictures of the team, family, and friends from the service. The walls were painted a warm creamy color, rather than being covered in heavy damask wall paper, and the air was filled with the faint scent of lemon mixed with sawdust, as opposed to being heavy with the warring perfumes of too many ornate large floral arrangements. It was a home, rather than a house, Tony realized as he walked into the master bedroom.

Of all the rooms in the home, this was his favorite. Not that he had officially ever been in there, but of course he had snooped on several different occasions. The bed was big, but practical, Amish in design, with a slatted headboard, and strong straight lines. It suited Gibbs, he thought. The bedcover was navy blue, and although plain, its down filled interior promised warmth and comfort. The rug that lay on the floor was a thick, burgundy shag, the one blatant luxury in a room that was otherwise a study in practicality, and was so obviously not something Gibbs would have purchased. Tony had always wondered who had bought that rug, amused that Gibbs hadn't gotten rid of it when its original owner no longer lived there. There was no TV in the room, of course, but a collection of books and magazines were stacked neatly on one end of the antique oak nightstand. On the ledge of the windowsill sat a wooden model of a boat, and two more graced the dresser across from the bed. Tony walked over to look at the boat models. The other times he had been in the room he hadn't had the luxury of really looking around, too afraid that Gibbs would catch him being nosy, but this time he had been invited. Each of the models was of a different sailboat, complete with little sails unfurled, all bearing a striking resemblance to the one Gibbs was currently constructing in the basement. He was startled when he saw that the boat in the windowsill had 'Kate' written on it in very small letters. Walking over to the dresser, he picked up one of the other boats; this one was named 'Shannon', and he found himself tracing the name with his fingertip. He set it back down on the dresser gently, knowing what the last boat was going to be named, but needing to see it anyway. Sure enough, in perfectly formed miniature black letters, the prow of that boat said 'Kelly.'

"I always build a miniature when I finish the real boat."

Tony was so surprised, he almost dropped the model he was holding. Replacing it in precisely the same spot he had picked it up from, Tony turned to look at Gibbs, who stood in the doorway watching Tony, his expression unreadable.

"They're beautiful," Tony managed to say, surprised by the thickness of his voice, and he swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat.

"Yes, they were," Gibbs answered.

The two men stood, looking at each other, both lost in private thoughts, but finding comfort in the presence of the other. Gibbs finally broke the spell by clearing his throat. "I'll get you those clothes. Do you want a pair of boxers?" he asked, as he approached the dresser where Tony was standing.

"Nah, I always sleep commando," Tony replied automatically, surprised he could talk, and reached for the clothes Gibbs had pulled from a drawer.

"Well, go on. My room is starting to smell as bad as you, DiNozzo," Gibbs instructed, determined to lighten the mood.

Gibbs watched Tony go into the bathroom. Once the door was closed, he collapsed down onto the bed. No one else who had ever seen the boats had commented on them, acting as if they represented some unhealthy obsession that was best ignored. But with two words Tony had said the perfect thing. Acknowledging the objects and what they stood for, and accepting both. It was another example of what made Tony so special, Gibbs thought; he understood him, and didn't need to talk the important things to death. As a matter of fact, he realized, Tony seemed to get him better than any of his last three wives. Only Shannon had possessed the same ability to read Gibbs; it was one of the things he had loved most about her. That realization scared him. It made him vulnerable, capable of being hurt. Looking at the closed bathroom door, he shook his head, thinking about the fickleness of fate.

After Tony shut the bathroom door, he leaned against it. That had been intense. Gibbs had surprised him with his honest response, "Yes they were", and when they had just stood there, looking at each other…….. 'Let it go,' he told himself. 'That's never going to happen.' He forced his body off the door, and headed towards the bathtub, dropping items of clothing as he went. He'd pick them all up and throw them away when he was done, he decided. He didn't want to wear any of those clothes again. He would always associate them with his failure to get Douglas, and the ugliness of the last twenty four hours. Reaching into the tub, he turned the shower on to as hot as he could stand, and after straightening, he pulled the bandage off the top of his head. Then, after grabbing a toothbrush, wash cloth and towel from the cabinet, he stepped into the tub, letting the water beat down on him for several minutes. Eventually he shampooed his hair, being mindful of his wound, and lathered the wash rag with soap, scrubbing his body from top to bottom, twice. When he felt the water start to cool, he turned off the shower and stepped out.

He toweled himself off, and brushed his teeth quickly, before trying to comb out his hair with his fingers. Exasperated with the results of his unique combing technique, he opened the medicine cabinet to search for a comb. As he pulled it out, he fingered the fine, silver hairs caught up in the teeth. On impulse he brought the comb to his nose, and was surprised when a faint scent of coffee and sawdust made itself known. 'God, maybe it's somehow crept into his genetic makeup,' Tony thought, as he cleaned out the comb, discarding the stray hairs in the trash. Then, smiling at his own whimsy, he quickly ran the comb through his hair and then pulled on the clothes Gibbs had given him. The shirt was a little big across the chest, and the pants a tad too short, but they were soft and warm, and Tony was grateful for them. Once dressed, he snatched up all of his clothes, except his shoes, and shoved them in the trash bin next to the toilet. He looked at his wrists. The dressings Ducky had so carefully applied were soggy and stretched out. Unwrapping them, he studied his hands. None of the cuts were bleeding anymore, and he figured they would be better off dry and unprotected, than covered in wet gauze, the moisture providing a breeding ground for all kinds of nasty things. The bandages landed in the trash, on top of the filthy clothes.

Gibbs looked up from where he sat on the bed when Tony emerged from the bathroom, carrying his shoes. He noted the lack of bandages, but chose not to comment. "Better?" he asked.

"Much, thanks," Tony said. "Didn't even realize how dirty I was, until the water ran black," yawning as he spoke.

"Let's get you into bed," Gibbs said, as he stood up, and gestured towards the bedroom door, indicating that Tony should head towards the guest room.

"Not a shabby idea, Boss," Tony said, as he tried unsuccessfully to suppress another yawn.

Gibbs followed him into the bedroom and watched as Tony pulled the covers back.

"Gonna tuck me in, Boss," Tony asked teasingly, smiling in an almost flirtatious manner, as he sat down on the bed.

"Not likely, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled.

Then Tony's expression changed completely. "Is this where we talk about how dumb I was?" he asked wearily, his face filling with self-recrimination.

"No DiNozzo. We're going to do that, but not when you're half dead," Gibbs promised. "No, this is where I tell you to get me if you need anything during the night."

Tony looked up at Gibbs, and briefly wondered what would happen if he told Gibbs what he really needed. Then he pasted on one of his meaningless smiles, lest Gibbs catch a glimpse of his thoughts on his face, and said, "Thanks Boss. I'll be fine."

Gibbs just looked down at Tony, not answering.

This time it was Tony who broke the silence. "You'd better get some sleep too, Boss. Tomorrow's almost here," he said quietly.

Gibbs nodded his agreement and headed for the door. Turning just before he walked out he said, "Glad you're okay, Tony." With that, he walked back to his own room.


	13. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen:**

Tony woke up with a start, and looked around, momentarily confused by his surroundings. Then the events of yesterday came flooding back. He was safe at Gibbs' house, he remembered. He stretched his aching limbs, toying with the notion of pulling the covers back up to his chin and snuggling back in for a little more sleep, but the urge to use the bathroom forced him from the warmth of the bed. As he padded down the hallway, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted up the stairs, alerting him to the fact that Gibbs was also up. Once he had taken care of business, he wandered down to the kitchen, arriving just in time to see a freshly showered and dressed Gibbs taking down a skillet, and setting it by the carton of eggs and package of bacon that sat on the counter.

"I'm always amazed you can cook," he smirked, pleased to see Gibbs jump in surprise. He considered it a bit of repayment for the number of times Gibbs had caught him unawares over the years.

"A monkey could make eggs, bacon, and toast DiNozzo," Gibbs grunted. "Coffee's made, mugs are in the cabinet over the coffee maker," he offered, his attention fixed on the task at hand. "Sleep okay?" he asked, as he placed the skillet on the stove to heat up.

"Yeah, not sure I ever even changed position once I lay down," Tony replied.

"Fried or scrambled?" Gibbs asked.

"Fried," Tony responded, as he helped himself to some coffee, and then leaned against the cabinets, content with just watching Gibbs work. 'The man cooks with the same efficiency he does everything else,' Tony thought, as he watched Gibbs place six pieces of bacon in the skillet, moving them around the bottom to spread the grease, in preparation for the eggs.

"Get me a couple of plates," Gibbs requested, pointing to an overhead cabinet. "There's silverware in the drawer to the right of the sink. You can set the table," he said, as he cracked an egg into the pan.

Tony did as instructed, handing Gibbs the plates and carrying the silverware to the table, placing them atop the napkins he pulled from a wooden holder which sat upon the table top. "Need me to do anything else?" he asked.

"Just take a load off, food's almost done." Gibbs said, as he skillfully flipped an egg. "We'll swing by your apartment on the way to work, give you a chance to shower and get some clean clothes."

When the food was done, Gibbs divided it between the two plates, and carried them over to the table. Setting a plate in front of Tony, he said, "No hits on the APB yet. Called in to check first thing this morning. Thought we'd start by comparing the information McGee's collected on Douglas with what you've got in your file."

In between bites, Tony managed to say, "I want to look over his house. I may find something the other team would have overlooked, since they don't know as much about his background as I do." Tony was thinking about Cassie, but couldn't seem to bring himself to name her. Talking about her always felt like revealing a big, dark secret, and Tony was in the habit of keeping secrets, big and small, from one and all.

Over the years, Cassie's case had become so very personal for him, almost mythic in proportion. The similarities in their backgrounds, and the cold, disinterest in both sets of parents had strengthened the bond he felt. When Cassie's friends had seemingly shrugged off her disappearance and moved on with their lives as if she had never existed, it had made Tony question what would happen if he were to fall off the face of the earth. Who would miss him? Who would look for him? For years Tony had been afraid the answer to those questions was, nobody. He knew now that wasn't true. Abby would mourn him, and McGee would miss him. Their relief last night, when Tony walked into the bullpen, had been very clear. And Gibbs…..Tony wasn't sure what Gibbs felt. He used to think Gibbs' concern stemmed from a need to control his environment and team, an almost instinctual need to protect anything and everything connected to him. But yesterday Tony had sensed that there was more going on there. That somehow, his well-being mattered to Gibbs on a much more personal level. Not sure if that had been real or just wishful thinking, Tony tucked that notion away in a corner of his mind, vowing to take it back out and re-exam it when he had more time.

"………. idea." Tony realized Gibbs was talking to him, and tried to refocus. "We should probably do that first thing. I'll call in to the office and set McGee and Greene on to going through the files, and you and I can go over to Douglas' straight from your place," Gibbs was saying, while watching Tony carefully.

From there they fell into a more easy conversation about the case, what they knew, and what was still a mystery. One point that bothered them both was the fact that they had no clue as to where Douglas had disappeared to after abandoning his car, but since he was driving in the direction of D.C., both Tony and Gibbs hoped that meant he'd come back to the city.

"After all, he knows this town, and has contacts here," Gibbs said.

"Yeah, that's more than possible," Tony conceded, "but he's got even more in Trenton. We should contact the Trenton P.D. and make sure they're on alert, Boss. Like you said earlier, he's running out of options and is going to need some help. I'll bet he dealt with more low-lifes in Trenton than here, and those are the people who will be the most help to him right now." Gibb agreed, and promised to have McGee contact them this morning.

The suicide/murder of the wife bothered Tony, since no one had been able to come up with a way for Douglas to have staged it. The pills were the answer, he was sure of that. He remembered that the name of the prescribing doctor on the pill containers in the medicine cabinet had been different than the name found on the bottle next to the bed. He wanted another look at those pill bottles. Ducky could tell them what each drug was used for, and then they would know what to ask when they questioned the doctors. His gut was telling him that the bottle found by the bed was significant; they just had to figure out why, he thought, as he swallowed down the last of his breakfast.

After the dishes were safely stowed in the dishwasher and McGee had been called, they headed to Tony's apartment. While Tony was cleaning up and dressing, Gibbs wandered aimlessly around the living room. He studied the movies stacked in the glass encased bookshelves, smiling at the eclecticism of the titles, _Reservoir Dogs _sat next to something called _Dumb and Dumber_, _The Thin Man_ next to _Die Hard_. The books, which were arranged by size, offered the same range of variety, recent crime novels sitting beside nonfiction books on forensic practices, art books beside comics. There were a handful of photos, framed and arranged along the top shelf. Aside from one stand alone picture of Abby, all of the photos were of various groupings of team members, most shot in silly moments at various crime scenes. Kate, hands on her hips, eyes flashing dangerously, and Tony, bent double with laughter, caught on film by someone while they were in the middle of an argument. McGee and Ziva, leaning against the Charger, laughing at the photographer. There was even a picture of Ducky and Palmer, standing by their truck, Ducky busily engaged in lecturing a smiling Palmer about something. When Gibbs saw the last picture, he opened the glass door to pull it out for a better look. It was a picture of Tony and him. They were facing each other, and his hand was raised behind Tony's head, mid swat. Tony was smiling at him in unadulterated happiness, even though it was clear he knew what was coming; as a matter of fact, it even looked like he was leaning into the head slap. Gibbs wore an expression that spoke of equal parts amusement and irritation.

"McGee took that last year, outside the bar in Maryland where we arrested that ensign who was running an internet scam."

It was Gibbs' turn to jump. Tony stood just to the right of him, looking at the picture in his hand. Gibbs turned towards him, and Tony looked up. They stood there, just inches apart, gazing at each other's face. As he looked at Tony, he saw his breath hitch and his eyes dilate, the emerald green becoming totally obscured by black. Tony gave a small shudder and looked away. Without even thinking, Gibbs set the photo back on the shelf and reached out and grasped Tony's chin, turning his head back towards him. Tony closed his eyes, trying to fight the urge to lean into Gibbs, not trusting his usual ability to mask his most private thoughts.

"Look at me Tony," Gibbs said gently, although there was an underlay of steel, making it impossible to disobey the request.

Tony took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Green eyes looked into blue eyes. Gibbs brought his other hand up to Tony's face, both hands now cradling Tony's cheeks. "Tell me what you want, Tony," he said, his voice little more than a husky murmur.

"You," was the whispered one word answer.

Gibbs slid one hand behind Tony's head, and drew him closer, his lips closing over Tony's in a kiss, long denied desire seeking satisfaction, making the kiss hard and demanding. Tony moaned into the kiss, his lips parting, and Gibbs' tongue darted in, gliding past Tony's teeth, thrusting in and out of the warmth of his mouth. Tony's body pressed closer to Gibbs in response, his arms wrapping around Gibbs' waist, drawing his body tight against his own. Gibbs rotated his hips, rubbing his need against Tony's, causing Tony to break the kiss off, his head falling back, as he offered his throat to Gibbs. Gibbs' mouth latched onto the proffered neck, biting, licking and sucking his way from jaw to collarbone, pausing to lave attention to every spot that caused Tony to gasp. One of his hands slid down to tease Tony's chest, the other eased up into Tony's hair, fingers wrapping around silky strands still wet from the shower, and pulling just enough to keep Tony's head back.

This continued for several minutes but reason finally won out over want, and Gibbs lifted his lips from where Tony's neck joined to his shoulder. Pulling Tony's head back up, Gibbs kissed him hard on the mouth once more, and whispered against his lips, "Tonight. We don't have enough time right now, and I want us to do this right the first time." Tony's arms wrapped tighter around Gibbs, his body offering physical dissent. "Tonight," Gibbs repeated, lifting his face away from Tony's this time, taking in the closed eyes and messy, red, swollen lips of the younger man. Unable to resist, Gibbs leaned back in one last time, and traced his tongue all around those lips, and then brushed one final feathery kiss atop them, before reaching down and disengaging Tony's hands. Tony's eyes opened and his mouth quickly followed. Pressing a finger to Tony's lips, Gibbs said, "Let's not talk about this now. It'll keep. We both know what we want, and that's good enough for now."

Tony took a step back, needing the space to calm his ragged breathing and pull his brain back up into his head. He still couldn't quite believe that had just happened, and that Gibbs had made a promise of more. His eyes were drawn back over to Gibbs, who stood motionless, looking relaxed and self assured, a smile that Tony had never seen before, gracing his lips. Tony gave a slight nod of his head, not sure whether he intended it to signify that he was alright, or that he was in agreement with Gibbs, and then, after one more deep breath, he managed to ask, "So, Douglas' house?"

Douglas woke up cold and stiff. He had fallen asleep while stretched out on top of the bed, trying to think of a solution for the mess he was in. Just before he had drifted into sleep, he had remembered Harris Wilson. Wilson was a counterfeiter, and Douglas had defended him three years ago, in Trenton, when he had been arrested for passing phony one hundred dollar bills. Despite a thorough search of his apartment, the police had not been able to find Wilson's equipment. Douglas had successfully argued that his client had been given the money as winnings on a bet, and that Wilson had no idea the money was fake. Of all his past clients, Douglas thought that Wilson was his best bet for getting a new identity. If he couldn't prepare the correct background and paperwork, Douglas was sure that he would know someone who could. Better yet, Wilson had been so pleased with the outcome, that he had told Douglas to call him if there was ever anything he could do for him. Hoping that Wilson still lived in Trenton, and was not presently incarcerated, he took out the disposable cell phone he had purchased the day before, and called information. Once again luck smiled on him, and the operator provided him with a phone number.

Looking at his watch, and seeing that it was only 7:00 a.m., Douglas decided to get something to eat before he tried Wilson. He didn't want to start their conversation by having to apologize for waking the man up. Coaxing his stiff muscles into complying, he stood and took himself into the bathroom. What he saw disgusted him. He had used the toilet the night before, but had been too preoccupied to really look around. But this morning, with light creeping through the tiny window on the wall next to the toilet, Douglas could really see the filth that seemed ingrained on every surface in the bathroom. Black mold tinted the grout on the tiled floor, and rust stains trailed down the side of the sink to the drain. The shower curtain was limp and looked too small to enclose the whole length of the bathtub, and the overpowering odor of mildew permeated the air. Deciding to forgo a shower, he took care of the most basic of necessities, careful not to set anything on the counter top. Once again, he cursed DiNozzo, blaming him for his present situation. Crossing back into the bedroom, he changed shirts, tossing the dirty one into his suitcase then, leaving the key on the dresser, he headed to his car. Opening the trunk to stow his luggage, he was surprised to find Walter Summers' dead body.

Slamming the lid down, and looking around to make sure no one was looking, he opened the door to the back seat, and shoved his suitcase in. The shock had left him shaky and breathing too hard; he had completely forgotten about the man. He had spent the last couple of days living moment to moment, letting necessity dictate his actions. He needed to get it together, he told himself. He was better than this. He always had a master plan, and he did whatever needed doing to make sure he achieved his goals. Climbing into the driver's seat, he drove back to the diner he had stopped at last night. As he sat, eating his runny eggs and flavorless toast, he entertained himself by thinking about the ways he'd like to kill Anthony DiNozzo.

After leaving his apartment, Tony and Gibbs drove over to Douglas' house. The tension between the two men was so great that it surrounded them like a force field from some sci-fi show. Get too close and the hidden electricity would shock you. On the drive over, they said very little, content to sit and remember what had happened and what had been promised. When they got there, crime scene tap crisscrossed the wide, double front doors, and a touchpad security lock had been installed. Punching in the code, Gibbs swung the door open, and stepped in.

"I want to look at the pill bottles in the bathroom," Tony told him, as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. "The bottle found beside Sarah Douglas' bed was prescribed by a Dr. Franklin, but the medicine in the cabinet, including Phenobarbital, came from another doctor. We need to check on that; it doesn't make sense. Why would you get the same medicine prescribed by two different doctors?"

"Maybe one of them dates back to when they lived in Trenton," Gibbs ventured.

"Could be," Tony said, as he began to climb the wide staircase. "Let's take a look."

When they got to the bedroom, Tony headed straight for the master bath. Looking through the pill containers, he said, "These were all prescribed by a Dr. Chancellor, and refilled last month. The phone number's local, so there goes any legitimate reason for two local doctors prescribing the same medicine. I'm betting Franklin is the one that's hinky. I don't see any other medicine with his name on it."

Gibbs already had his phone out. "I'll have McGee send someone to pick him up and bring him in for questioning. He can cool his heels in an interrogation room until we get there. Where else do you want to look?"

"I don't really know. I just feel like there must be something here that will help us. I don't know why, maybe it's just wishful thinking," Tony said, melancholy slipping into his voice. Shrugging it off, he said, "Let's try the study."

Once they got into the study, they discovered that the NCIS team had boxed up the paperwork from the desk and taken it back to headquarters. Stymied, Tony gazed around the room, not really knowing what he was looking for. It seemed like weeks, rather than days, since he had stood outside the window and watched Douglas as he lounged in here. He walked over to the floor to ceiling bookcases, and looked at the books. There were several collections of books on law and case files. Leather bound classics, meant to be seen, rather than read, lined shelf after shelf. A set of old encyclopedias took up another three shelves. Two shelves had been set up to accommodate oversized books, and Tony recognized a couple of art anthologies that he also owned, although he was willing to bet his got looked at a lot more than Douglas'. Running his finger along the spines, Tony paused when he came across a grouping of yearbooks. Four yearbooks from Temple University sat next to old high school ones. Pulling out the book for 1997, Tony couldn't resist turning to the "E's" and searching until he found Cassie's picture. There she was, smiling up at him, her blonde hair and blue eyes shining. "I'm working on it," he said softly to her picture, in answer to a question that only he could hear.

"Did you say something, Tony?" Gibbs asked from the other side of the room, where he was looking through the desk drawers, hoping to find something the other team had missed.

"No, it was nothing," Tony answered, embarrassed that anyone, even if it was Gibbs, had heard him talking to Cassie. He started turning to the 'D's', intending to look at Douglas' picture, when he saw a slightly yellowed folded piece of paper, tucked in between the pages. Pulling it out, he unfolded it and looked at it. On the top of the page was the Planned Parenthood logo. Scanning over the document he saw that it was a bill for an examination and pregnancy test, dated April 4th, 1998. The patient's name was Cassie Edwards. Tony couldn't believe what he was looking at. He had just, accidentally, stumbled on a motive for Douglas murdering Cassie.

"Gibbs," he cried excitedly, waving the paper in the air. "Come look at this. It's from Planned Parenthood, and says Cassie Edwards had a pregnancy test fifteen days before she went missing. In all these years I could never find a reason why someone would want to hurt her, but if she was pregnant with Douglas' baby, that could explain a lot. The last thing he would have wanted at that time was a wife and baby to support. He was all caught up in being a frat boy, and having a good time; being a daddy wouldn't have factored into the equation," he said, handing the paper over to Gibbs.

Gibbs looked it over and said, "I wonder if she tried to pressure him, and he decided to just make the problem disappear. Judging from what he did to you, he doesn't seem to have any problems with violence. The fact that he has the paper certainly implies they had some discussion about it."

"I don't know, but you can bet I'm going to ask him when we get our hands on him," Tony vowed, feeling oddly upbeat, even though their speculations suggested that Cassie was dead. Tony had long ago accepted the idea that she was dead, it was the who and the why, along with the not knowing what had happened to her, that bothered him. Now it looked like the why might be answered, and along with it, the who. All he needed know was the what, and only Douglas could answer that. "Let's get back to the Yard. We need to find this bastard as quickly as possible. He's been getting away with murder for too long," Tony said to Gibbs, as he headed for the door.


	14. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen:  
**

After Douglas had paid for his breakfast, once again using Summers' credit card, he drove to the nearest branch of his bank. He was going to need serious money, and it had finally dawned on him that using his ATM card would become dangerous. When the bank opened at 9:00, he went in and emptied both his checking and savings account, telling the banker that he was changing jobs and would be opening a new account in a different town, and explaining that there were no branches of this bank there. When the bank representative had tried to talk him into a money order or teller's check, he insisted the money be given to him in cash. He couldn't afford not having cash readily available. He knew this transaction would leave a trail, but he had no intention of being in D.C. for very much longer.

Back in the car, thirty-two thousand dollars richer, he pulled out his phone and a scrap of paper. Reading the number written on the paper, he punched Harris Wilson's number into the phone.

"Speak," a grumpy voice commanded. The tiny, red headed, middle aged man sat on the edge of his bed and scratched at his morning beard, as he waited for an answer.

"Wilson? This is James Douglas, the lawyer; I don't know if you remember me," Douglas said.

"Oh, yeah, Douglas. Sorry, late night. Course I remember you. You saved my ass. What can I do for you?" Wilson asked, his voice having warmed considerably.

"Well, I'm in a bit of a jam, and you once said for me to call if I ever needed anything," Douglas began.

"And I meant it. So how big is this 'jam' you're in?" Wilson inquired, more alert now.

"It's pretty bad, actually. I'm afraid I find myself needing a new identity, and I don't know how to go about getting one," sweat inexplicably broke out on Douglas' forehead as he confessed to his situation.

Wilson whistled into the phone. "That's more than being in a jam, I'd say," he commented. "I meant it when I said I owed you, though. I can help you, but it's going to have to cost some money. I'm going to need the help of some other people, and they won't work for free."

"How much?" Douglas asked, relieved that Wilson could help, and that he hadn't asked too many questions.

"Probably close to five grand; I won't charge you for my work. You're going to need a new social security card, birth certificate and driver's license, at the very least," Wilson said as he thought. "I'm going to need to get your picture. Can you come to my place sometime today?"

"I'm not in New Jersey right now. It'll take me a few hours to get there," Douglas responded.

"That's fine. It'll take me that long to get the ball rolling. Why don't we meet up somewhere for a drink around four, then we can take it from there. Do you remember that sports bar we met at when you were defending me?"

"The one over on 7th Avenue?" Douglas asked, remembering the smoke filled, overly loud bar.

"Yeah, that's the one. 4:00; see you then," he said.

"4:00," Douglas confirmed, and then disconnected. He started the car, and pulled out of the bank's parking lot. As he drove towards the highway, he started to plan. He was going to need an identity that would allow him to get accredited as a lawyer, so that he could continue to support himself, he thought, but would tell Wilson his requirements after they met up. His mind flashed back to the scare he'd had that morning. He needed to get rid of the body in the trunk, and quickly, before it started to smell, he realized with irritation. He'd have to find some place to dump it along the way, he thought, as he reached up to drag his hand through his hair in frustration. This had all gotten completely out of control. Everything had been fine until DiNozzo had come snooping around. Now he was on the run, and dependent on a two-bit counterfeiter to help him maintain his freedom. He slapped a hand against the dashboard, wishing it was DiNozzo's face, and vowed that he would go back and finish off that problem when he had a chance. For now, he had to get to New Jersey, and establish a new identity. Smoothing down the hair he had ruffled, he settled back into the seat, watching for a likely place to pull off and dump Summers' body.

When Tony and Gibbs walked into the bullpen they headed straight for McGee's desk, where he sat with Greene, pouring over the documents taken from Douglas' house. Greene had pulled a chair up to the front of the desk, and he and McGee were pulling files off of a central stack, piled so high it threatened to topple over. They were placing the ones they had looked at on another, much smaller, pile to the right of the main one. They made quite a pair, Tony thought, as he looked at them; McGee, in his preppy, blue button down shirt, camel sweater vest, and brown tweed jacket and Greene in a puce wash-n-wear shirt, topped by another grey polyester blazer, reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

"Report, McGee," Gibbs barked as they approached the desk.

McGee jumped to his feet, knocking his elbow into the pile, which would have fallen had Greene not reached out to steady it, causing Tony to stifle a laugh. "Nothing in the files yet, Boss," he said. "Called Trenton P.D. and asked them to be on alert. Told them we had an APB going here for Douglas. Franklin's in Interrogation Room Two, fit to be tied and screaming about his rights, and Abby's going over Douglas' car," McGee blurted out.

Gibbs brought them up to date on what he and Tony had discovered at Douglas' house. Greene was upset with himself for not having caught the inconsistency of doctors on the medicine bottles, and announced, "There's no fool, like an old fool."

"Your captain pulled you off the case, Greene. You didn't have time to really bite into it. You'd have put it together sooner or later," Tony offered, not liking to see the older man so down on himself. "We've got Franklin here now; let's see what he can tell us."

"Your catch, your interrogation, Tony," Gibbs said, as they walked towards the room, Gibbs stopping to fill his coffee cup on the way.

Tony watched Gibbs, McGee and Greene enter the observation room, then, after taking a deep breath and straightening his dove grey silk tie, he opened the door to Interrogation Two.

Tony looked at Franklin as he stepped into the room. The doctor was a small, compact man, who clearly worked hard at staying in shape. Although he was around fifty, his waist was slim and his dark hair showed no signs of grey. He was dressed in an expensive navy blue suit, and a pair of trendy glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His features were even, if unremarkable, and his unlined face hinted at cosmetic surgery. He was clearly a vain man, and Tony tucked that information away, in case he could use it to his advantage.

"Good morning Dr. Franklin, I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. I want to thank you for coming in to talk with us," Tony said, as he crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite Franklin.

"Well, I certainly wasn't led to believe I had much choice," snapped Franklin.

"I regret any inconvenience this may be causing you, sir," Tony apologized, "but we could really use your help in apprehending a murder suspect." Tony took in the sweat that was dripping down the man's face, and the agitated bounce of his left leg. He most definitely had something he felt guilty about.

"A murder suspect! I can assure you that I don't know anyone who would do something like that," Franklin huffed.

"Actually, I think you knew his wife, a Sarah Douglas," Tony offered, watching Franklin carefully, pleased when he saw the tightening around Franklin's eyes as he fought to school his expression.

"I don't have a patient by that name," Franklin asserted.

"Are you sure?" Tony asked. "Maybe you knew her by her maiden name, Sarah Jones?" Tony wanted to be fair, and not automatically condemn the man.

"That name doesn't ring a bell, either," Franklin said, trying to sound calm, even though fear and guilt were threatening to overpower him.

Tony leaned back in his chair a bit, and smoothed the creases out of his tailored grey windowpane plaid pants, pretending to consider what Franklin had said. Then, after unbuttoning his suit jacket, he looked over at the doctor. Letting his brow crease in confusion, he mused, "That's funny, because an empty Phenobarbital bottle, prescribed by you, was found next to her dead body." Tony locked eyes with the doctor, any good humor he once wore on his face had disappeared when he told Franklin about the bottle. "Just how would you explain that, Doctor?" he asked, his voice hard as steel.

Franklin didn't respond at first. He just looked at Tony, panic etched on his face. Finally he set his elbows on the table and leaned his face into his shaking hands. He sat like that for a few moments, before he said quietly, "Nothing like this was supposed to happen."

"Come again?" Tony asked.

"The pills, nothing bad was supposed to happen," Franklin said, looking up at Tony, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I wrote that prescription as a favor to my divorce lawyer. He said his wife was having some troubles, and that she had taken the drugs before, and they had helped. When I did it, they had just moved to the area, and he said she hadn't had time to get a new doctor. They were just supposed to tide her over," he explained.

"Do you often write prescriptions for people you've never met?" Tony demanded.

"No. No never," Franklin said.

"So why this time?" Tony asked.

"Look, Douglas, my lawyer, did me a couple of favors on the case, and I didn't want to anger him by refusing his request for the prescription," Franklin admitted.

"Did he blackmail you?" Tony asked, leaning in towards Franklin.

"Not in so many words," Franklin said. "But he had information that would have been very bad for me if it got out, and there was something about the way he talked that made me think he might let stuff slip if I displeased him."

"What information?" Tony snapped, all vestiges of the nice guy gone now.

"That's not important," Franklin dodged.

"I'll decide what's important," Tony said. "You gave up that right when you prescribed that medication. What did Douglas have on you?" he asked again.

"I may have not reported all my assets in the settlement hearings with my wife," Franklin choked out.

"And Douglas knew this?" Tony pushed.

"It was his idea," Franklin said. "He showed me how to set up off shore accounts to bury my money."

"What else can you tell me about Douglas?" Tony asked.

"Nothing, really. I saw him on Monday night. Someone called the office asking about a Sarah Douglas, and I got nervous. I met him for a drink, and he assured me I had nothing to worry about. I'd forgotten about the prescription, truth be told," Franklin said. "By the time we were done with our drinks, he'd half convinced me that it was a case of mistaken identity, both in the name Sarah Douglas and in the Dr. Franklin. The person who called claimed they were looking for the cardiologist, Dr. Franklin, after all. I just let it go," he said, his voice trailing away at the end, the ramifications of what had happened, finally sinking in. "How did she die?" he asked, not really wanting to know, but unable to resist knowing.

"An overdose of Phenobarbital," Tony said bluntly. "Your prescription was next to her when she was discovered."

"But you said murder," Franklin objected, just assuming it had been a suicide.

"There are serious questions as to whether she willingly ingested the medication. Questions that seem substantiated by the fact that Douglas tried to kill me Monday night, and is now on the run," Tony answered.

Franklin's face turned white, and he mumbled, "I think I'm going to be sick."

Tony kicked the trash can, which had been sitting next to the table, over towards him. "Use that," he said baldly, no sympathy in his voice. He stood, and moved towards the door. "One of our lawyers will be in to talk to you. You might want to think about consulting your own. Oh wait, I guess you can't, since he's now a fugitive! Our lawyer should be able to set you up with counsel. Have a good day," and with that, Tony stepped out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

When the door closed, Tony leaned against the wall, trying to steady himself. His body shook with rage, and it had been all he could do not to scream at the weak little man. The observation room door opened, and Gibbs stepped out, pulling it shut behind him.

"You okay, Tony?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm just feeling a little sick to my stomach, also. Sarah Douglas would still be alive if that weasel hadn't wanted to cheat his wife out of money," he said bitterly. "It's all such a waste."

"If Douglas had wanted her dead, he'd have found a way," Gibbs said. "He hasn't proven to be shy about it yet. Franklin just made it easy for him." Gibbs waited, watching Tony pull himself back together. When Tony pushed away from the wall, squaring his shoulders, Gibbs said, "You did good in there."

"Thanks, but he wasn't exactly a criminal mastermind – not very hard to break," Tony said.

"But you got him to place the prescription in Douglas' hands. That'll be important when this goes to trial," Gibbs reminded him.

"So, what do you think Sarah Douglas did?" Tony asked.

"What?" Gibbs asked, confused.

"Cassie Edwards was pregnant, and probably threatening Douglas' plans for himself. What do you think Sarah did, that made Douglas want to take her off the grid?" Tony explained.

"I don't know, but that's a real good question DiNozzo. Think we'd better find the answer to it. Let's go talk to McGee and Greene."

Then Tony had another thought. "Has anyone been tracking his bank accounts?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. We need to get McGee on that right now, if it hasn't already happened," Gibbs exclaimed, kicking himself for not double checking on that himself, yesterday.

They walked back to the observation room, where McGee and Greene were still watching Franklin. "Let's go back to the bullpen," he told the two men. "We've got some new angles to explore. McGee, have you checked Douglas' accounts for any notable transactions?" he asked as they moved down the hallway.

"I did last night, before I went home. Just the ATM withdrawals we already knew about. I hadn't gotten around to doing it again this morning," McGee admitted.

"Do that first thing," Gibbs ordered. "Greene, Tony was wondering why Douglas wanted his wife dead. That's something we haven't really looked in to yet. What are your thoughts?" he asked, once they were back in the bullpen.

"Well, it looks like his answer to every problem that inconveniences him is to get rid of it, so it's probably safe to bet she was somehow in his way. Maybe he was having an affair, and wanted to make it legitimate. Murder is cheaper than divorce," Greene offered.

"Yeah, that's possible," Tony countered. "Course, it could also be the opposite. Maybe she's the one who wanted a divorce. I doubt if Douglas would want to divide up his money and property. Again it adds up to murder being cheaper than divorce."

Before anything more could be said, McGee exclaimed, "Boss, Douglas cleaned out his checking and main savings accounts this morning at a branch here in the city. He's now got thirty-two thousand dollars in cash."

"I want double security at the airports McGee. I do not want him slipping out of the country. Make sure his picture is plastered all over every airline counter, and that his passport is flagged," Gibbs barked.

"On it, Boss," McGee answered.

"Greene, when he's done talking to airport security, get him to help you look for anything that would suggest the late Mrs. Douglas was less than enamored with her husband. See if there are any papers that were hers, not his, and start calling every divorce lawyer in the city."

"What are you and the kid going to do?" Greene asked.

"We're going over to the law firm Douglas worked for. I want to talk to his secretary and the other lawyers. If he was having an affair, they might have been aware of it. At the very least, I want a look at his daily planner. Maybe there's some clue in there. Call me if you see anything that supports either of these ideas," he instructed, as he headed for the elevator, with Tony once again right behind him.

Wallace & Wynman was the kind of law firm that Washington specialized in. Housed in an old, well maintained, two story brownstone, white shutters on the windows, the small flowerbeds on either side of the entrance landscaped with seasonal mums and ornamental Japanese maples; it reeked of money and discretion. Showing their badges to the receptionist, Gibbs and Tony were ushered back to Douglas' paralegal, a young pretty brunette, with long legs and a killer smile. She preened a little, when she saw Tony, and Gibbs gestured towards her, nodding at Tony. He had decided it was best if Tony took the lead, having seen him charm innumerable women of all ages over the years. Soon, Tony and Jessica, the paralegal, were on a first name basis, and Tony sat on the edge of her desk, leaning in towards her as they talked. It seemed that Jessica had seen no hint of misbehavior on Douglas' part.

"After all, have you seen him?" she asked Tony, giving a little shudder. "Not exactly Brad Pitt, you know," she said with a giggle, when Tony nodded and held his arms out in front of him, indicating that Douglas had more than a few extra inches there. Despite the fact that it was his idea to let Tony question the young woman, he couldn't seem to fight the jealousy that had started to eat at him as he watched the two younger people flirting openly. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that he would be the one taking Tony home that night, but found it didn't seem to help. Tony had just gotten her to agree to let them into his office for a look at his schedule book, when a portly, well dressed older man came into the office.

"I'm Hugo Wallace, may I help you gentlemen?" he asked stodgily.

"Special Agent Jethro Gibbs," Gibbs said, holding out his hand. "We're here about James Douglas. As I'm sure you know by now, Mr. Douglas had become a person of interest in an ongoing case we are investigating."

"I was aware that there were some questions about his activities, yes," Wallace said, as he shook Gibbs' hand. "What can we do to be of assistance to NCIS?" he inquired.

"We'd like to see his date book," Gibbs said, knowing he would need a subpoena to even mention his case files.

"I'm afraid that is confidential," Wallace replied stiffly. "We have a responsibility to protect the privacy of our clients."

"We're not interested in your clients," Gibbs said quickly. "We're actually looking to see if he recorded meetings with people outside of the work day. There's been a suggestion that Douglas may have been having an affair, and that's our primary concern." He stopped and gauged Wallace's reaction to that information. Seeing Wallace consider what he'd been told, Gibbs decided to press harder. "Of course, we can always get a judge to grant us a subpoena, but we'd hoped to keep your firm's name out of our official reports," he said, feigning regret.

"That won't be necessary," Wallace said quickly. "I certainly didn't see any signs of Douglas philandering, but I don't think there's any reason why you couldn't take his planner. There won't be any confidential information in it," he added, now in a hurry to get the agents to leave. Turning to the paralegal, he said, "Jessica, if you could just get these gentlemen what they need, and then show them out, please." Turning to Tony and Gibbs, he said, "If that's all you need, it was a pleasure to meet you," he said, then turned and left them alone with Jessica.

Once they had the day planner, they said their good byes to the paralegal, who pressed a slip of paper into Tony's hand as they were leaving. When they got out of the brownstone, Tony slid the paper into his jacket pocket.

"You planning on looking to see what that was?" Gibbs asked, a tad too snappishly.

Tony looked over at Gibbs, amused when he saw Gibbs trying to assume a look of casual disinterest. Deciding to poke the bear, he said, "I don't need to. I know it's her phone number."

Gibbs' eyes flashed, then his jaw tightened. "Are you planning to use it?" he inquired, still aiming for nonchalance, and failing miserably.

"Well, I hadn't planned on it," Tony said. Then unable to resist, he asked, "Do you think I should?"

The head slap was not unexpected, but the words that accompanied it were a surprise. "I don't share what's mine," Gibbs growled.

"Duly noted," Tony said, a mischievous smile spreading out on his face, making Gibbs feel foolish when he realized he had just been played.

Deciding two could play at that game, he said, "We'll just have to see about marking you as 'private property' later on," and smirked when he saw the small tenting of Tony's pants. They got in the car without further discussion. After a quick lunch and a caffeine stop for Gibbs, they headed back to NCIS.

The rest of the day dragged by, and Tony grew more antsy with each passing hour, thinking about how Douglas was slipping away. The files and day planner had yielded no secrets, and the calls to the innumerable lawyers were bound to take all of that day and part of tomorrow. Finally, when six o'clock rolled around, and the law firms were closing for the day, Gibbs said, "Let's call it a night. We aren't going to get any further today. We might as well get some sleep, and start fresh again tomorrow."

"Eight tomorrow morning?" McGee asked, as he quickly gathered up his stuff, intent on leaving before Gibbs could change his mind.

"Yes. That okay with you Greene?" Gibbs asked, not knowing if the man had to report to his own precinct first.

"That works. I'll see you all then," Greene said, as he rubbed his tired eyes, and stood to leave.

"You coming, Tony?" McGee asked, as he and Greene headed towards the elevator.

"You guys go on," Tony said. "I just need to quickly finish up something before I leave. Have a good night," he called to the departing men.

When it was just the two of them, Gibbs looked over at Tony. "My place?" he asked.

Feeling shy again, for some reason, Tony just nodded.

"Food along the way?" Gibbs asked.

"Not all that hungry," Tony answered.

Remembering the game Tony played earlier, Gibbs grabbed his jacket and stood. Walking over to Tony, he said quietly, "Oh, I intend to eat, DiNozzo," then he spun on his heel, his stunned senior agent slowly trailing behind.


	15. Chapter 16

**A/N: This chapter is pure, unadulterated, slash. It that isn't your thing, as some of you have indicated, you can safely skip it; nothing case related is going to happen here. The boys are going to consummate their relationship, leaving them with a deeper connection.**

**Chapter Sixteen:**

The ride to Gibbs' house happened in silence, neither man feeling the need to speak. This wasn't unusual for Gibbs, but constituted an almost news worthy occurrence for Tony. When they pulled into the driveway, Gibbs looked over at Tony. "Second thoughts?" he asked, needing to be sure.

Tony turned and looked at Gibbs, his pupils already blown, his checks lightly flushed. "None," he said with quiet conviction.

Gibbs nodded once, and opened the car door, now in a hurry to get into his home. When he got to the front door he paused, holding it open, letting Tony enter before him. As he shut the door, he studied Tony, who stood awkwardly in the entryway, not seeming to know what to do, his usual grace replaced by an almost adolescent unsurety. Gibbs was surprised by the change in Tony. There had been no hesitation this morning, but in thinking back, he realized that had happened spontaneously. The situation now was very different. This was planned, and Tony had all day to think about it. He knew that Tony wanted this, there was no way to fake the look of hunger on his face, but there was something making him uncomfortable. Suddenly something occurred to Gibbs. Walking over to Tony, he once again gently cupped the younger man's face. "Tony, have you ever been with a man before?" he asked softly.

Tony hesitated a beat too long, before he replied, "Of course."

Gibbs almost wanted to laugh; even Tony's brazen sexual posturing had been part façade. Oh, Gibbs didn't doubt that Tony was an experienced lover, but apparently there were some holes in his areas of expertise. "Tony," he said again, his tone demanding the whole truth, even as he moved his hand from his chin to gently stroke his face, his fingers softly tracing Tony's lips. "Tell me the complete truth. It won't change what we do, just how we go about it," he promised.

Tony closed his eyes, and Gibbs was afraid for moment that he was going to lie again. Then, without opening his eyes, he confessed, so softly that Gibbs had to strain to hear him, "I've kissed a lot of men, even groped around several times, but that's as far as it's ever gone. It never seemed worth the risk before," he admitted. When he was done speaking, he lowered his head.

Gibbs wrapped his arms around Tony, and drew him close, then bent his head until his lips found Tony's, and kissed him softly but unhesitatingly. He let the kiss go on until Tony was actively kissing him back. Then, with uncharacteristic tenderness he said, "Let's take this upstairs, it'll be more comfortable there," and he reached down and took Tony's hand. Leading him up the stairs, Gibbs stopped occasionally, to drop a few kisses on Tony's lips. He wanted Tony to be consumed with need, too hungry for fulfillment to let his inexperience hamper his enjoyment.

When they got to the master bedroom, Gibbs led Tony over to the bed. Reaching out, he slid Tony's jacket from his shoulders, letting his hands glide over Tony's back and chest. He then slid the tie loose, and pulled it over his head. When Tony reached out, to tug at Gibbs' clothes, Gibbs pushed his arms back down, saying, "Let me, Tony. Let me take care of everything. You just concentrate on feeling." He sealed Tony's mouth with his own before the younger man could offer any argument. As he kissed him, Gibbs pulled Tony's shirt out from the waist of his pants, sliding one hand under the fabric, and letting it softly caress the taunt skin of Tony's belly. When Tony reached up, wrapping a hand in Gibbs' hair and opening his mouth to allow Gibbs' tongue entry, Gibbs began to unbutton the shirt. When he had it open, exposing Tony's chest, he pulled his head free from Tony's grasp, breaking the kiss. He then gently pushed Tony back, until he sank down onto the bed, his legs bent and hanging over the side, his back lying against the covers, his shirt falling open, exposing his toned chest and stomach.

Gibbs straddled Tony's legs, and then bent, once again capturing Tony's mouth with a kiss, although this one was harder, more demanding. When Tony's hips involuntarily thrust up towards Gibbs' crotch, Gibbs released Tony's mouth and began to trail kissed down his throat, occasionally pausing to nibble and suck. Once Tony was softly moaning with pleasure, he slid down far enough to allow him to capture one of Tony's now exposed nipples in his mouth. As he sucked and gently bit, his other hand reached over to stroke and softly tease the other nipple. Tony writhed under him, having given himself over to sensation only, no longer capable of speech. When the nub in Gibbs' mouth was almost painfully erect, he released it and moved his mouth over to the other one. Once both nipples were standing at attention, he reached under Tony, and pulled him into a sitting position. Then in one quick move, he slid the shirt off of Tony's body, tossing it to the side of the bed, then lips reattached to Tony's neck, he lowered him back down onto the bed. At the base of Tony's neck, Gibbs bit just hard enough to leave a mark, and said softy, "Private property," knowing that Tony would get the reference.

Extending his tongue, Gibbs began to lick his way down the bare flesh, starting at the skin right below Tony's chin, and ending at his belly button, pausing only to lave at the love mark and the already sensitive nipples. As he went, he blew softly over the wet trail his tongue made, causing goose bumps to form along the way. When he got to Tony's belly button, he licked around the rim of it, and then slid his tongue into its recesses, moving his tongue in and out. When Tony's hips were matching the rhythm of his tongue, he lifted himself completely off Tony's body. Kneeling between Tony's thighs, he pulled off his shoes and socks. Then, reaching up, he opened Tony's belt and unfastened his pants button and zipper. Sliding his fingers under the waistband of the pants, he gave a quick pull, removing trousers and boxer briefs all at one time. Before Tony could even react, Gibbs bent forward, engulfing Tony's swollen and heavy penis in his mouth, causing Tony to scream in a combination of surprise and pleasure, his hands scrabbling against the bed, seeking purchase, as Gibbs showered attention on his dick. When he could tell Tony was close, he lifted his mouth off of Tony long enough to say, "I want you to come now, Tony," then he lowered his head back down onto Tony's continuously leaking shaft. Gibbs lowered one hand and pumped on the base of Tony's penis, while his mouth concentrated on its sensitive head. Unable to stave off his orgasm any longer, Tony shouted his release, thrusting one last time into Gibbs' mouth, as his body seemed to shatter. Gibbs swallowed it all, his mouth remaining enclosed around Tony, until he could feel the shuddering begin to subside. Then he removed his mouth and crawled back up Tony's body, until he could capture his mouth again in a bruising kiss.

Tony was finding it hard to reconnect with reality. His breathing was ragged, and the power of his orgasm had left him seeing only thousands of swirling red dots. He felt the weight of Gibbs' body press down on him again, and was aware that Gibbs was kissing him, and that he was answering that kiss. He could taste something slightly bitter and salty on Gibbs' lips, and realized it must be his own cum. He ran his tongue around the inside of Gibbs mouth, curious to explore the new flavor, surprised that he didn't find it unpleasant. When Gibbs said, "Lets get you up on the bed properly," he was able to help shift his body, pushing it back and up on the bed, turning until his head rested on a pillow and his legs were stretched out in front of him. He felt the mattress beside him give, and vaguely saw Gibbs stretch out next to him, and then he felt arms encircle him, pulling his body in tight, and he allowed his eyes to close.

Once his head was nestled onto Gibbs' shoulder, he realized that Gibbs was still wearing his shirt, having been so intent on pleasuring him that he had not even taken the time to undress. Taking a couple of long, steadying breaths, Tony opened his eyes, and forced his mouth to comply with his wishes. "Aren't you a little overdressed?" he managed to choke out.

"I don't intend to stay this way for long," Gibbs answered softly. "I told you I intended to eat, and that was just my appetizer. We'll get to the main course in a bit," he promised, as he shifted Tony's boneless body enough to recapture Tony's mouth, this time pressing a long, soft, drugging kiss on it. The kiss went on and on, until it was Tony who deepened it, replacing the soft nibbles with a harder, more demanding edge. When Tony reached over and began to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, Gibbs complied. Toeing off his shoes, he let them drop off the end of the bed, and then reached down to open his trousers. Tony had succeeded in opening his dress shirt, and had just moaned in frustration when he discovered the t-shirt underneath. Mirroring the way he had undressed Tony earlier, Gibbs sat up and pulled the t-shirt, along with the outer shirt, off of his body in one fluid motion. Then lifting his rear off the bed, he slid off his boxers, pants and socks. Tony had stopped helping, and was now contenting himself with just watching while he lay on his side, his appreciation for what was being revealed reflected on his face.

Tony let his eyes wander up and down Gibbs' body, impressed by the hard, toned muscles on the older man. He paused when he got to Gibbs' cock, erect and red, weeping slightly for release. He was slightly surprised when his own cock gave a small, answering twitch. His eyes travelled back up to Gibbs' face, and he saw that he was just watching Tony, an unreadable expression on his face, his eyes dark with desire.

"Tell me again what you want, Tony," he said.

"You, all of you," Tony said back, his voice stronger than he expected, his cock becoming half erect.

That seemed to be what Gibbs had been waiting for, because as soon as Tony had spoken, Gibbs reached over and pushed Tony onto his back again and then covered his entire body with his own length. Resting his elbows on the pillow, to either side of Tony's head, his hands grasped Tony's face, holding it still as he locked their mouths together once again, in a hot, wet kiss. Tony's hands began their own exploration, running up and down Gibbs' back, grazing over his ass, marveling at the play of soft skin over firm muscle. It was so different from the gentle curves and yielding flesh of a woman, but no less erotic. Feeling emboldened, he rocked his hips, and shivered as hard flesh rubbed into hard flesh. Gibbs was now feasting on his favorite hot spot, the top of his neck, right below his ear. He could feel the need behind the kisses and bites, and knew he would have a mark there in the morning, but couldn't worry about that now. He slid one hand between their bodies, letting his fingers migrate to Gibbs' nipples, tracing a finger around the pink areolas and then pinching lightly, pleased when Gibbs moaned in response. Tony thrust his hips back up into Gibbs, wanting to feel the glide of slick skin against slick skin again. He hands reached down to Gibbs' ass, pushing down, wanting to deepen the contact between their two bodies.

Gibbs pulled back, until he was sitting up, straddling Tony's hips. He reached around and disengaged Tony's hands, pressing them gently down into the mattress, careful not to push on the areas still wrapped in bandages. "I want to be inside you," he said, his eyes fixed on Tony's. The sentence was part question and part statement of fact.

Tony swallowed, not knowing what to say. Settling for action, he spread his legs, offering himself to Gibbs, who groaned his understanding. Bending down once more, he kissed Tony deeply, then whispered, "Don't move, I'll be right back." Then he slid down between Tony's open thighs, and pushed himself to the side of the bed. Leaning over, he opened the drawer to the nightstand, and pulled a condom and a bottle of lube out; then he crawled back between Tony's legs, where he kneeled, placing the objects next to Tony's left hip. Reaching over, he pushed Tony's knees up and apart a bit more, until his feet were planted on the bed, then Gibbs opened the bottle of lube, coating the fingers on his right hand liberally. Leaning back down, he kissed Tony, and whispered, "If you want me to stop at any time, just say the words. There are lots of other things we can do," he promised.

Tony reached up and touched Gibbs' face. "I want you," he reasserted huskily, chasing his words with an answering kiss of his own.

Gibbs moved back some, so that he could take Tony's nipple back into his mouth. When Tony arched his back in response, Gibbs reached down with his lube covered hand and gently began to circle Tony's tight entrance, lightly pushing just one fingertip in occasionally, as he lubricated the area. When Tony began to softly rock his hips in response, Gibbs slid his finger in deeper. As Tony stilled, he encouraged gently, "Breathe Tony." He continued the oral assault on Tony's chest, allowing Tony time to adjust to the invasion by his finger. Once he felt the muscles relax slightly, he began to move the finger in and out, thrusting just a little deeper with every inward push. When Tony seemed to have fully accepted the first finger, he added another, again edging it in slowly, giving Tony time to adjust. Wiggling his fingers slightly, he finally found what he was looking for, and he rubbed his index finger gently across Tony's prostrate, causing Tony to gasp with pleasure. His left hand encircled Tony's cock, gently squeezing and pulling, as he continued to slowly open Tony up, alternating between gentle thrusts, scissoring his fingers, and massaging his prostrate. Another finger was added, and finally Tony was panting, and moaning, "Please, please" over and over again, although Gibbs was fairly sure he wasn't even aware of what he was requesting.

Finally Gibbs could not deny his own need any longer, and he pulled his fingers out, quickly opening the foil package, and rolling the condom over his penis. He glanced up and looked at Tony, who was softly whimpering over the loss of contact, his eyes clamped closed, and his head rolling back and forth on the pillow in distress. 'God, he's beautiful,' Gibbs thought, as he kneeled between Tony's legs. Reaching down, he lifted Tony's legs up on to his shoulders, and pulled a pillow from the head of the bed, positioning it under Tony's hips. Lining himself up, he said, "Look at me Tony." He held still until Tony opened glazed eyes to look at Gibbs. Once he knew Tony was focused on him, he pushed in gently, pausing when Tony's eyes widened, giving him a chance to adjust. When Tony nodded, Gibbs pushed again, sinking in a little deeper, watching Tony for signs of true pain. Seeing none, he continued his slow progress, reaching back down to stroke Tony's flagging hard on. Realizing that Tony was once again holding his breath, he softly encouraged him to relax and breathe. When he was fully seated, he stopped, allowing Tony time to get used to the sensation, all the while continuing to lavish attention to his cock. Finally, Tony drew in another shaky breath, and whimpered, "Move, please."

That was all the encouragement Gibbs needed. Bending down to kiss Tony once, he then began to push in and pull out carefully. He could feel Tony's body relax around him, accepting his girth, and he increased his speed and the strength of the thrusts slightly. Tony's hands were clawing at the sheets in pleasure now, his eyes closed once more, and Gibbs could not restrain himself anymore. Gibbs' hands tightened around Tony, and the gentle squeezing and pulling on his cock became harder and more purposeful. Gibbs' thrusts began to match the actions of his hands, and his own moans mixed with the mewling sounds that Tony was making. Tony opened his eyes, seeking out Gibbs' just before he came, hot and wet all over his stomach and Gibbs' hand. Gibbs lifted his hand to his own mouth and licked Tony's seed off his fingers, causing Tony to shudder, his muscles clamping down even harder on Gibbs' cock. That was all it took, and Gibbs felt himself release, wave after wave of pleasure wracking his body.

Thoroughly spent, Gibbs collapsed down on top of Tony, sweaty chest pressed onto sweaty chest, as he kissed Tony's bruised lips. After catching his breath, he gently eased out of the younger man, and said, "I'll be right back." Rolling the spent condom off, and tying it up, he climbed off the bed and went to the bathroom to dampen a cloth with warm water and grab a towel. Bringing them back to the bed, he carefully cleaned off both himself and Tony, throwing the towels to the floor when he was done. Then lying back down beside Tony, he wrapped his arms around the limp body, drawing him close, dropping gentle kisses on Tony's jaw and neck. Tony eventually remembered how to move his arms, and he answered Gibbs' embrace by sliding an arm around Gibbs' waist, and snuggling closer.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, Tony murmured to Gibbs, "Forget pizza, I've got a new favorite food." With a smile on both their faces, they fell asleep.


	16. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen:  
**

Tony woke to the feel of soft nibbles trailing down his neck. He was on his side, and a strong arm was wrapped around his middle, holding him snuggly against a hard body. Gibbs, he was in Gibbs' bed, he thought, as his brain finally caught up to his body. Rolling his hips, he felt the proof of Gibbs' desire. Turning his head until he could see the silver top of Gibbs' head, he asked, "Dessert?"

Gibbs lifted his face from the base of Tony's neck and smiled at him, "Nope, breakfast. Its 5:30," as he pulled Tony over onto his back and climbed on top of him. Tony looked up into the bright blue eyes gazing down at him, and licked his lips, just for the pleasure of watching the heat rise in Gibbs' eyes.

"I could eat," Tony said, as his arms reached up and pulled Gibbs' head down until their lips were touching. As Tony opened his mouth, allowing Gibbs to deepen the kiss, his hands began their own exploration, first rubbing up and down Gibbs' back and then sliding from his arms, down his sides to his hips. He hadn't gotten to touch much last night; Gibbs had done all the work, and Tony had been too lost in the sensations to do much more than receive. But Tony was tactile, and his hands now worked to create a map of Gibbs' body which he could commit to memory, placing an invisible marker on every place that he touched which caused Gibbs to rock against his body. When he slid his hand between their bodies, intent on exploring Gibbs' more private bits, he was surprised to encounter an already sheathed and lubed member. "Already started cooking?" he asked, as his hand closed around the sensitive head, and squeezed gently.

"Was more like just putting the oven on preheat," Gibbs moaned, as he involuntarily thrust into the warmth of Tony's hand. "Had to prepare the dish first."

"And when the dish is ready?" Tony asked, rocking his hips back up into Gibbs.

"Then I'm going to put it in the oven," Gibbs answered huskily, as he slid far enough down to sink between Tony's now spread legs, his left hand reaching for the lube that lay on the bed. Squeezing some onto his fingers, he reached down and circled Tony's entrance with a now greased finger, pleased when Tony automatically drew up his legs to provide better access. He stroked Tony as he stretched him, until Tony was clearly ready, and then slowly slid in. It took all of Gibbs' self control to keep the strokes light and easy, knowing that Tony couldn't help but be sore this morning, but needing to reaffirm what had happened last night. When they had both reached completion, and were once again lying wrapped in each other's arms, Gibbs kissed Tony one last time and said softly, his voice filled with regret, "We need to get cleaned up and ready for work. I put your kit in the bathroom down the hall; that way we can both shower at the same time. We'll grab some real food and coffee on the way in."

Tony groaned as Gibbs pulled away from him, then slowly extracted himself from the bed and padded down the hall, to the guest bathroom. As promised, the bag containing his spare clothing and toiletries was waiting for him, and he found himself wondering what time Gibbs had woken up that morning. He turned on the water, letting it heat up, as he pulled out what he would need. As he showered, he thought back over last night and this morning. He was still a little stunned by what had happened. Even though he had lusted after Gibbs for the longest time, he had never really fully visualized what would happen if his passion was returned. He didn't know what he had expected, something rougher, more demanding, he guessed. The patience and concern that Gibbs had shown surprised and touched him. Tony wasn't used to feeling like a blushing virgin when having sex; he was used to being the one doing the seducing. His body began to ache with longing again, as he thought about what they had done, and he shook himself, needing to think about it rationally. He could become addicted to this, he realized; he had to be very careful, he told himself, as his old insecurities resurfaced. Would Gibbs grow tired of him when the novelty wore off? When sleeping with a subordinate became too complicated? What would he do if that happened? How could he continue working along side him, knowing what they once had? Should he break it off before he got too invested? Could he, or was it already too late?

Once he was showered and shaved, his teeth brushed, he stood looking at himself in the mirror. Gibbs had left several small hickeys on his chest and neck, all of which his shirt would hide. There was a larger one though, on his neck, right below his left ear that his collar could not cover. Tony ran his fingers across it, pressing slightly to bring back the memory of when Gibbs had placed it there. "Private property," that's what Gibbs had said as he made it. That made Tony think that Gibbs had intended for the mark to be visible; his own private brand. No one would know it was Gibbs that had put it there, but it would serve to label Tony as taken. Maybe he did matter more to Gibbs than a quick fuck. Knowing that he was making a dangerous decision, Tony knew he wanted to let things play out. As he pulled on the clothes that had been stowed in his kit bag, his brain was screaming at him to rethink his choice, but his heart and body were sending a different message.

As Tony and Gibbs were getting dressed for the day, Douglas was just waking up. He was in yet another motel room, this one located in the heart of downtown Trenton, and although it was not as bad as the flea ridden dump he had stayed in the day before, it fell far short of the luxuries he was accustomed to enjoying. Yesterday had been crazy, he thought, as he lay in the bed, remembering what had happened.

When he had gotten about forty-five minutes outside the city, he had started looking for somewhere to dump Summers' body. Pulling off the highway, he had found a small gravel road, snuggled between two already harvested cornfields. Looking around, and seeing no signs of human life, he had pulled over, and lugged the body out of the trunk. Then he had dragged it about one hundred yards into the field beside the car, and covered it with some of the stalks which had been flattened to the ground, making it invisible to the casual observer. He had also pulled Summers' credit cards from his own wallet, and tossed them on the ground, knowing it would be dangerous to continue to use them. Then he had gotten back in the car, and continued on his way.

He pulled into Trenton early in the afternoon and parked the car in an overnight lot near the bar he was meeting Wilson, intending to just leave it there. Taking a dirty t-shirt from his suitcase, he wiped down every surface in the car that he had touched. Even though he was planning to change his identity, he saw no reason for allowing the police to chalk one more murder up to him. Once his task was completed, he grabbed the suitcase and headed out. As he walked down the sidewalk, feeling very conspicuous as he carried a suitcase, he looked for a place to spend the night. On the next block he'd found a small motel. He'd rented a room for a week, and had gone up to take a shower, feeling dirty from the combination of not having taken one that morning, and the way he had sweated when he had dealt with Summers. Once he was clean again, and in fresh clothes, he had gone in search of food, unwilling to deal with Wilson on an empty stomach. He also wanted the food to help buffer him from the effects of the drinks he knew he would have to share with the man.

He had walked into the sports bar at 4:00 on the nose, looking around to spot Wilson. The man had secured them a small table towards the back of the bar, and although the bar was not empty, there were no other patrons near him. The noise from the multiple televisions, all tuned to different games, and the sounds emanating from the pool tables would provide good cover for their conversation, Douglas realized, as he headed towards Wilson. Wilson stood when he reached the table and pulled him into a hug. It was all Douglas could do to keep from shuddering in revulsion; he didn't like people touching him, particularly pond scum like Wilson.

"So what's going on?" Wilson asked, after he had released Douglas. "Never thought you'd be asking me for something like this?"

"I'd really rather not say," Douglas answered, not at all willing to tell Wilson anything he could use against him. Besides that, he knew that talking about what had happened would be unpleasant. Not because he felt guilty over what he had done, because he didn't. From his perspective, he had merely taken care of some problems which had threatened his happiness and well being, something almost anyone would do. No, he was afraid that talking about it would allow the rage he felt over being forced to give up his comfortable way of life an opportunity to resurface, and he couldn't afford that right now. He needed to be sharp, have all his wits about him. Something must have slipped past his mask, because Wilson's face became wary.

Wilson held up his hands in mock surrender, "That's cool, I don't need to know" he said, as he sat back down. "So, you need a new identity, that won't be too hard," he stated, when Douglas sat down at the table, too.

"Yes," Douglas answered, "and I forgot to mention it over the phone, but I'd like to be able to continue practicing law, so I'll need a phony diploma and transcript from some law school, because I'll need to take the bar exam in whatever state I relocate."

"Now that's going to be a little more difficult," Wilson said, his eyes having widened at the new information. "I'm going to need to get some help from someone a little more high powered than me."

"I don't want my name mentioned," Douglas said, "but I'll pay you extra for taking care of this."

"This'll cost a lot more, too," Wilson said hesitantly. He didn't know why, but Douglas scared him for some reason. There was something too off about the man; something that made Wilson worry about his own safety.

"How much more?" Douglas demanded.

"Probably another ten thousand, if I call in a favor," Wilson responded.

"That will be fine," Douglas said, doing the math in his head, and knowing that he could cover it. "I'll throw in another two thousand for you, to make up for the added work," he offered.

"You don't need to," Wilson said, not wanting to owe the man anything more. "I said I owed you one, so this will be my way of repaying you. It's going to take a few days; the law school stuff is going to make it complicated. Call me tomorrow afternoon. I'll have had a chance to talk to the guy who can probably do this for you. We can set up a time then for me to get pictures. I suggest you think about dying your hair and changing the way you wear it, before then. That'll make it harder to recognize you, just in case someone is looking," he said, watching to see how Douglas reacted. When he saw the man considering what he had said, he knew he had been right. People were definitely on the look out for him. Suddenly in a hurry to put some distance between the two of them, Wilson stood. "Well, the sooner I start on this, the sooner you'll be all set up. Talk to you tomorrow," he said with a wave, as he turned and hurried out of the bar.

Douglas had just sat in his chair, rather stunned by how the meeting had gone. He had been worried that Wilson would want to hang out, instead the man couldn't seem to get away fast enough. Oh well, he thought, it wasn't as if he had wanted to socialize with him. Just because he spent a lot of time with riff-raff on a daily basis due to his job, didn't mean he liked them. Seeing the half drunk beer sitting on the table in front of where Wilson had been, he dropped a five dollar bill down, not sure whether the drink had been paid for, and not wanting to do anything that would cause the server to remember them. He then stood, and headed to the nearest drug store to buy some hair dye; he recognized a good idea when he heard it.

So here he was now, lying on a lumpy hotel bed, stuck in Trenton New Jersey until Wilson could make all the necessary arrangements. Sighing, he stretched and then slowly raised himself off the bed. Grabbing the box of dark brown hair dye, he headed into the bathroom, eager to start his transformation into a new person.

When Tony walked into the kitchen in search of Gibbs, the older man looked him over. The faded jeans he wore were snug in just the right places, and the slightly rumpled white button down shirt played up the bronze of his skin. Gibbs thought the outfit flattered him more than the fancy suits Tony so loved. The only thing that marred his appearance were the now damp bandages gracing both wrists, but seeing them reminded Gibbs of how this whole thing had started. "Ready to go?" he asked, suddenly eager to find a way to catch Douglas and make him pay.

"Sure. Sorry, this is all I had in my kit," he said, indicating the clothes he was wearing.

"You'll do," Gibbs said with a smirk. "We can pick up some stuff from your apartment on our way home tonight," he added, leaving Tony too stunned to answer.

'Tonight' he thought. 'Gibbs wants me back here tonight.'

"You coming DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, as he stood in the kitchen door, looking at his senior agent, who seemed lost in thought.

Tony snapped out of his daze and said, "On your six, Boss," as he turned to follow.

As they were climbing into Gibbs' car, Tony could be heard asking, "So, didn't you promise coffee and food along the way? Cause breakfast just made me hungrier." He laughed when Gibbs reached over and cuffed him on the back of the head.


	17. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen:  
**

It was 7:30 when Tony and Gibbs walked into the bullpen. The large cavernous room was still quiet, the work day not really having ramped up yet. Neither McGee, nor Greene was in yet. After dumping his depleted kit next to his desk, Tony looked around, trying to decide what to do. Since it was still too early to start calling law firms again, and because he didn't know where they had left off in reviewing the files from Douglas' house, Tony announced he was going to go and say good morning to Abby, knowing she would already be in.

"Don't forget to buy a Caf-Pow on your way down. Oh, and Tony, when you're done with Abby swing down and get Ducky to change those bandages on your wrists. They'll heal better if they stay dry," Gibbs called after him, as he turned on his computer, sighed, and prepared to deal with the multitude of emails that mysteriously appeared every night.

Abby, greeted him with her usual, "Tonyyyyyyyyyy," when he walked into her lab, although she did have the presence of mind to grab the proffered drink before she wrapped her other arm around him, pulling him in for an enthusiastic one armed hug. Tony loved going to see Abby; there was something so comforting in her consistency. He knew that she would always be decked out in some combination of black clothing and leather, her hair pulled back off her face, either in braids or pigtails, and most importantly, she would always be glad to see him. Whenever he was stressed, or feeling unsure of himself, Abby always knew the right words to set him back on track. She was probably his best friend, the person he was most at ease with, and even when he was feeling good, a visit with Abby was a bright spot in any day.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, as she pulled away to look him over. "Does your head hurt? You don't look like yourself; I can't remember the last time you wore jeans to work when it wasn't the weekend, although you do look pretty sexy in them."

"I'm fine," Tony said. When she frowned at him and put a hand on her hip, he said, "I know, I know," aware of the fact that Abby knew he sometimes said that when it wasn't true. "I'm fine, really I am, Abs. These were the only clothes I had in my kit and I didn't want to wear the dirty ones," he explained.

"Oh, you must have spent the night at Gibbs'," she said, correctly guessing where he had been. "That's good. You shouldn't be alone right now," Abby exclaimed. "I was going to offer to come over, but you left before me last night. I tried calling you at the apartment, but when you didn't answer, I figured you were probably already asleep."

"Thanks, Abby," Tony said, truly touched by her concern. "I guess I'd better get going. I just wanted to see you and say hi, start my day off right," he smiled as he spoke. "Gibbs has ordered me to stop off and see Ducky, so I'd probably better move it."

"Hold it mister," Abby cried, setting her drink down on the table next to her, and reaching up to grab Tony's face. "Why does he want you to see Ducky? What aren't you telling me?" she asked, knowing Tony was capable of covering up even a serious injury if he didn't want to deal with it.

"I'm not hiding anything, Abs. I just got the bandages on my arms wet, and he wants Ducky to redress them. That's all, I promise. Scout's honor," he said, holding up three fingers.

"You were never a scout," she snorted. "You'd better be telling me the truth, or I'll hurt you," she warned, batting at him to reiterate her point. Her hand grazed his left ear and neck, and Tony winced before he could even think about it. Seeing the wince, Abby grabbed his chin and tilted his head to the side. What she saw there made her stop. "Tony?" she began, and then didn't know quite what to say, which was a very unusual condition for Abby.

Tony had turned five shades of red, and he looked at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent 'Oh'. He was just beginning to formulate a response, when Abby once again wrapped herself around him.

"Oh my god, you and Gibbs. That's so hot! The two sexiest men I know!" she squealed. "Why didn't you tell me? This isn't the kind of thing you should keep from me! How long has this been going on? I can't believe I didn't figure it out! Who else knows? I'd better not be the last! If Timmy knew, and didn't tell me, I'm going to hide his body so well that even a cadaver dog won't be able to find it. I didn't even know you liked guys, too. Tony, I thought we'd gotten past that keeping secrets from each other thing, and now I find out you're bi-curious. Oh, my god. Hot, hot, hot! Is Gibbs a good kisser? I'll bet he is. It certainly looks like it," she said, and paused briefly to look at the hickey again.

"Breathe, Abby," Tony said, afraid she was going to hyperventilate. "Abby, no one knows. You've got to promise me you won't tell anyone, not even McGee. If this got out, Vance could use this as an excuse to break up the team again. And I haven't been keeping it from you, it just happened," he said, trying to sound calm even though he was totally freaked out.

He hadn't fully thought about the ramifications of being involved with Gibbs until just now. Before Vance became director, Tony would have said that Gibbs was bullet proof, but he wasn't so sure that was the case anymore. He didn't understand exactly what was going on between those two, but he knew that Gibbs didn't trust Vance, and that was good enough for him. He certainly knew that Vance didn't like him; his time away as Agent Afloat had proven that. Then there was the other thing, the fact that Gibbs was a man. He didn't know how to feel about that. It wasn't as if he hadn't known he was attracted to the man, but he'd never really thought it would come to anything. After all, he didn't date men and he hadn't expected Gibbs to, either. Not that he had anything against gays; he had been telling the truth last night when he said he'd kissed plenty of men before. But that had been in clubs, with lots of alcohol mixed in, and last night had been different. It had been different than anything he had experienced before. His feelings for Gibbs were deeper, harder to ignore, made him feel out of control, and that scared him. Shaking himself out of his musings, he realized that Abby was talking again.

"….won't tell anyone! How could you even think I would? But we'd better do something about that mark on your neck, or I won't need to," she was saying, as she turned and headed to her desk, dragging a batman themed makeup bag out of her purse. "I don't have the right color, but I can sure make it less noticeable," she said, as she pulled some concealer out of the bag. Looking over at him, surprised to see him just standing there like a statue, she patted the desk chair and said, "Well, come over here and let me work on that."

Tony sat down in her chair as she opened up the tube of concealer and started to dot it on the bruise. The pressure hurt, but he wasn't willing to acknowledge it to her, so he gritted his teeth and let her carry on. She dabbed and rubbed gently, carefully inspecting the results as she went along. Finally she had done all she could. "Well, it isn't completely hidden, but I don't think anyone will notice. I can't put too much of this on, because it's way too light for your skin color, and would only draw attention to your neck, but I think what I've done will do the trick. Just don't go touching it, you'll smear the makeup."

Tony grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Thanks my mistress of the dark," he said, as he stood up.

Abby pressed her lips to his cheek and returned the kiss, "You're most welcome, sir." When Tony made ready to leave, she said in a serious voice, "Tony I really am glad for you. This could be the best thing that ever happened to either of you. You're perfect for each other. Don't let your own insecurities short-circuit it," she cautioned, proving how well she understood Tony.

Tony kissed her forehead, and said, "I'm trying not to, Abs. I'm really trying."

"Then everything will be just fine, you'll see. Now get your ass over to Ducky. You don't want to get Gibbs mad, do you?" she said, as she made little shooing motions at him.

"No, don't want that," Tony laughed, as he headed out the door, on his way to the morgue.

Ducky had a few choice things to say to Tony about the way he was caring for his wounds, but he redressed them and gave Tony some extra bandages, gauze, and ointment for the next day, knowing that the same thing would happen again. Then after a quick look at the cut on Tony's head, he sent him off, after making Tony promise to alert him if anything started to hurt, or feel significantly different.

By the time Tony got back up to the bullpen, Greene and McGee were in, once again crowded together at McGee's desk. Gibbs was nowhere to be seen, so Tony knew he was either up briefing Vance, or off getting coffee.

"Morning," he greeted the two men, as he went to his desk to stow away the medical supplies Ducky had pushed on him

"Hey Tony, Hello Kid," the two men answered.

Gesturing to Gibbs desk, Tony asked, "Coffee or Vance?"

McGee laughed, "Both, coffee first and then MTAC."

Tony nodded. "So, where do you want me to start?"

Greene ripped the sheet of paper he was working from in half, handing the bottom to Tony. "'Bout time you made yourself useful," he teased. "Here's half of the list of law firms I've been calling. Might as well start with these."

Tony took the paper from him, and headed to his own desk. By the time Gibbs came down from his meeting with the Director, all three men were busily engaged in calling lawyers. This went on for about an hour and a half, until Tony starting waving for attention, even as he continued to talk on the phone.

"Yes, sir," they could hear him say. "As I said, Mrs. Douglas is dead, and we're doing some background work. There are some questions surrounding her death. It has been suggested that her marriage wasn't rock solid, and we're trying to confirm that." He paused, clearly listening to the person on the other end.

"Had you served him papers, yet?" Tony asked, looking up and catching Gibbs eyes, and then shaking his head, to indicate what the lawyer had answered.

"Would you mind telling me what grounds she was citing?" he asked, writing something down on a piece of paper on his desk.

After another brief pause, he said, "I can understand that, but you should know we have reason to suspect that Mrs. Douglas was murdered, and right now, James Douglas is our prime suspect."

There was another pause, and then Tony said, irritation creeping into his voice, "Well, I'd really like to do that, but you see, Douglas is in the wind at the moment." He fell silent again, listening, and then snapped, "I guess I'll have to do that then. Thanks so much for your help," and he hung the phone up, just a little too hard.

Tony looked over at the other men. "Sarah Douglas was getting ready to divorce Douglas. Her lawyer was willing to confirm that, but won't give me any of the details. Cited client confidentiality. I hate lawyers! Said we'd need a subpoena to learn more."

"McGee, get the name of the lawyer from Tony, and then go up to legal and see what they can do. We just got our motive, but it wouldn't hurt to know the details," Gibbs ordered.

"There wasn't anything about this in any of the paperwork collected from their house," Tony mused, after handing McGee the information he had gathered. "She must have been keeping her paperwork somewhere else. Did we find any record of a safety deposit box anywhere?" he asked.

"Not that I remember," Greene said. "If she had one, bet it would be at a bank near where they lived. Let's get the phonebook and start calling branches close to the house."

It was Greene who earmarked which branches to call. His years with the police department had provided him with a complete knowledge of where everything was in D.C. As McGee was up talking to legal, and Gibbs was working on something at his desk, Tony and Greene began to call.

They had been at it for about fifteen minutes when Gibbs desk phone rang. "Agent Gibbs," he barked into the receiver as he answered, and then he fell silent, listening, supplying an occasional "when was that," and "uh, huh." Finally he said, "I appreciate you calling, we'll be there in about four hours. Which precinct did you say you were with?" he asked, and as the other person spoke, he jotted down a note. "See you then," he said, and hung up the phone.

"Grab your gear," he said, after replacing the receiver. "That was Trenton P.D. Seems Douglas did head that way. He contacted an old client, wanting to set up a new identity. The client contacted the local LEO's for some reason, and they finally got around to calling us. We're headed to New Jersey. You okay to go away for a day or so, Greene?" he asked.

"Try and keep me here," Greene challenged. "I've got a packed bag out in my car. I'll grab it as we leave."

Tony was already pulling clothes out of a file drawer, and shoving them into his kit bag. "What about McGee," he asked.

"He's going to have to stay here. Someone needs to talk to that lawyer, and get his files on Sarah Douglas. I'll give him a call, and then we'll head out. Greene, go get your bag, and we'll meet you by my car," Gibbs said, telling Greene where it was parked, and then pulling out his cell phone.

Within minutes, the three men were in the car, headed for New Jersey. For the first time since the case had begun, the mood was upbeat and optimistic.


	18. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen:**

Douglas sat on the bed in his motel room, staring at the cell phone in his hand. It was twelve-thirty, and he'd been trying to call Wilson, on and off, for the last two hours, eager to find out what the man had arranged, and to start his new life. Looking at his watch, he saw that it had been fifteen minutes since his last attempt. Calling up the memory on his phone, he clicked on Wilson's number, and hit 'call' again; he was almost surprised when Wilson answered.

"Where in the hell have you been?" he barked. "I've been trying to get hold of you for over two hours."

"You did want me to make arrangements, didn't you?" Wilson asked, sounding just as irritated. "I had to go see the guy who's going to make your documents."

"So what's the plan, then?" Douglas demanded.

"I need to get a couple of pictures of you. Can you come over to my apartment tonight, around six-thirty? I'll do it there."

"Yeah, no problem. Give me the address, I'll take a cab over," Douglas said, sounding much happier now that things were beginning to move forward.

Wilson supplied him with the information, and after a brief farewell, hung up. His hand was shaking and he was sweating heavily, when he looked over at the Trenton detective who sat in a nearby chair, in his living room. "He's really losing it," he told the man.

Wilson had been very bothered after his meeting with Douglas the day before. Everything about Douglas had seemed off yesterday; his voice, his movement, and the expressions on his face were all completely different from what they had been when last he had dealt with the man. Douglas had seemed like one of those crazy guys from the movies, he thought, and they were always dangerous. When he had gotten home, he'd considered his options. He had spent too much time in jail in the past, and didn't intend to ever let that happen again. Going to the police seemed like the best bet, but that didn't come naturally to him, so he had decided to sleep on it. When he had awakened this morning at seven o'clock, which was very early for him, he hadn't felt any better about the Douglas situation. So eight-thirty found him standing at the front desk of the closest police precinct, asking to speak to a detective. Once he had been ushered in to see the officer, Wilson had explained the situation, assuring Detective Ramson that he had never had any intention of helping Douglas, or breaking the law in any fashion, and he didn't really know why Douglas had contacted him.

When Ramson had run Douglas' name, he saw the alert from NCIS, and the contact name, Jethro Gibbs. After talking to his captain, he had devised a plan for apprehending Douglas; now all he had to do was convince the weaselly little forger.

"No way!" Wilson had cried, when Det. Ramson explained the plan to him. "I don't want him anywhere near my apartment. Plus, I can't afford to have cops crawling all over my building. It's hard to get an apartment when you've got a record, and I don't want to get kicked out," Wilson had whined.

"We're going to have your apartment covered; we'll even have a man inside. There isn't any way you could get hurt, and don't worry about your landlord. I'll talk to him; tell him you are working with us, undercover. That should make it all right with him. Landlords usually like it when they've got someone with police ties living in their building."

"Yeah, that's all well and good, but what do I get out of risking my neck?" Wilson grumbled.

Ramson's eyebrow shot up. Now they were getting to it, he realized. 'Should have known Wilson had a way to make this work to his advantage,' he thought to himself. "What to you want to get out of it?" he asked.

"Well, nothing too big," Wilson said, and then pretended to think. "You know, I got a speeding ticket last week. Sure wish that could go away," he said craftily.

Ramson sighed. "Let me talk to my captain about it," he said, as he stood.

When Ramson came back from conferring with his boss, he told Wilson, "The captain says that if you play along with us, and we get Douglas, then your ticket will just disappear. But you have to do everything I tell you," he warned.

Wilson had been thrilled. He would have done it for nothing, because Douglas scared the shit out of him, but it was always nice when you could make something work in your favor. That was how he found himself sitting in his apartment that afternoon, arranging for a meet with Douglas, Det. Ramson by his side.

Gibbs, Tony, and Greene arrived in Trenton at one o'clock, a mere three hours after they had left D.C., despite heavy traffic along the beltway. Tony was hungry, and agitating for food of any kind. Greene just wanted out of the car; the mere thought of eating threatened to push his already fragile stomach over the edge. Gibbs wanted coffee. They settled for the drive-thru at a Starbucks, making everyone except Greene happy. When they pulled up in front of the old brick precinct, Gibbs parked illegally in a 'police vehicle only' space and placed an NCIS sign in the window. Greene leapt from the car, eager to feel solid ground beneath his feet.

"Who the hell taught you to drive, Mario Andretti?" he cursed at Gibbs, as the other man came up beside him, one of his rare grins spread across his face.

"You're turning into a pansy, Greene. Must be because the rust buckets they give you over at METRO won't go over forty-five miles an hour," Gibbs teased.

"What about you?" Greene demanded, whirling on Tony, who stood watching the two older men, as he finished off his second espresso brownie. "How can you eat after that ride?"

"Dramamine," Tony said, as he swallowed the last bite.

"What?" Greene demanded.

"Dramamine. I never get in a car with Gibbs without taking some. I carry it in all my pants pockets," Tony smirked.

"You didn't think to offer me any?" Greene asked.

"Didn't want to imply you were a pansy," Tony said, as he licked the crumbs off of his fingers.

"What the hell kind of lunch is that, kid?" Greene grumbled. "You're going to be bouncing off the walls in about ten minutes."

"Didn't need a full meal. I had a big breakfast," Tony replied, covertly watching Gibbs, pleased when he saw the older man choke slightly on his coffee after hearing what Tony had said.

"Are we going to stand out here talking, or go in and see what's going on," Gibbs said, even as he reached over to slap the back of Tony's head.

"On your six, Boss," Tony said. Gibbs couldn't help think Tony specifically said that, just to taunt him.

When they got into the old, rundown precinct, the sergeant at the front desk directed them to third floor, to a Captain Iverson. As they climbed the stairs, the building's one elevator being out of order, Greene was struck by how similar most city police stations were, no matter what state they were in. They seemed to all be located in old buildings, furnished with the hand-me-downs from other city buildings, and lit with harsh flickering fluorescent lights, which always seemed to be on the verge of burning out.

Capt. Iverson was a large, middle-aged African American man, still fit, and wearing his suit with military precision, every crease crisp and in place.

"Gentlemen," he said, indicating that they should take a seat in the chairs which were scattered around his desk.

"Tell me what's going on with Douglas, and where we can find him," Gibbs demanded, and Tony could see Iverson visibly bristle.

"_We've _set up a sting for this evening, and _WE_ intend to capture him at that time," Iverson said, making it clear that he viewed Gibbs as an interloper.

Tony was just about to break into the conversation, in an attempt to salvage their relationship with the Trenton P.D., when Greene started to talk.

"Look, it sucks when the Feds show up, I know, I'm a detective with D.C. Metro, but these guys are okay. I know Gibbs sounded a bit pushy, but this is real personal for all of us. Douglas made a fool out of METRO, and Tony's been chasing after him since he was a cub back on Philly's police force. Gibbs is pissed because Douglas managed to kidnap the kid here, and we just got him back; plus he's an ex-Marine and he just can't help himself. So if it seems like we're wound a little tight, you can see why," Greene explained.

Iverson had softened visibly as Greene had outlined the history the three men had with Douglas. "I was in the Corp, too," he said, offering Gibbs an olive branch.

"Semper Fi," Gibbs said with a small smile.

"Oorah," Iverson answered, matching Gibbs' smile.

After that, things went much smoother. Iverson explained what had happened with Wilson that morning, and the plan they had for catching him that evening. Gibbs asked several good questions about how they were planning on taking Douglas down, and was pleased to hear that the police intended on hiding in the bedroom and bathroom at Wilson's apartment.

"We'd like to be in on the take down," Gibbs said finally, not wanting to ruin the progress they had made by demanding it.

"Yeah, given what all you've gone through to get him, I don't see why not," Iverson said. He had altered his opinion of the three men, and appreciated Gibbs asking, knowing that as a Fed, he could have insisted, and although they would have argued, Gibbs would have eventually won. "I suppose you want to be in the apartment?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Gibbs said.

"Be back here at four. We want to be over at Wilson's by five, just in case Douglas is smart enough to scout it out first. I'll make sure you are part of the team in the apartment," Iverson said. "Are you planning on staying over night in Trenton?" he then asked, changing the subject.

"Yep, it'll be too late to head back tonight, once everything gets wrapped up here," Gibbs answered.

"There's a Best Western, half a mile down on the right. If you're on the government's dime, it's probably the best deal you're going to find," Iverson offered.

"Sounds good," Gibbs thanked him. "We'll get checked in and grab a bite, before meeting you back here," he said.

When they got to the hotel, they booked two rooms, a double which Tony and Greene were going to share, and a single for Gibbs. Much as Gibbs would have liked it to be different, he knew any other arrangements would have raised questions, questions he didn't think either Tony or he were ready to answer. After passing out the room keys, they agreed to get freshened up, and meet back in the lobby in an hour.

Greene opened the door to the room he was sharing with Tony, and the two men entered, carrying their overnight bags with them. It was your standard, generic hotel room. Two double beds were positioned against a wall, a solitary nightstand sat between them holding the telephone and alarm clock. The bedspreads were made of a quilted, durable fabric, its pattern designed to hide ingrained stains. A large television sat on a dresser, and two easy chairs had been placed by the window, obscuring the air-conditioning and heating unit.

"I'm going to wash my face and brush my teeth," Greene volunteered, after he'd sat his bag down on the dresser. "Do you need to use the bathroom first?" he asked.

"Nah, you go ahead," Tony said, as he dug through his own bag, looking for his tooth brush.

When Greene came out, Tony was sitting in one of the chairs, looking out of the window, which opened up onto the parking lot. Greene stood and looked at the young man. He was lost in thought, tense and unhappy, and it occurred to Greene that he had not been his usual bouncy self for some time.

"Hey Kid, you okay?" he asked Tony.

"Yeah," Tony said, giving a small shake of his head. "Just trying to wrap my head around everything that's happening. I've been working Cassie's case for so many years now, and suddenly, in a matter of just a few days, it's cracked wide open. It doesn't seem real somehow. You know?" he said quietly.

"That's the way it happens sometimes kid. You can chase after your own tail forever, and suddenly, someone shuts a door, and catches it in it, and then before you know it, you get to stop circling. We'll get this bastard tonight, and you'll finally be able to find out what happened to her. If she's dead, you'll be giving her peace," Greene said gently.

"That's what I keep telling myself," Tony said.

"Well, you should start listening then. Seems to me you're a pretty good detective," Greene offered.

"Yeah," Tony said, in a noncommittal voice, standing up and heading toward the now vacant bathroom.

Greene watched him as he walked to the bathroom. He really liked the kid. He was smart and had guts. He was tough, too. Most people would have taken a couple of days off after what happened to him, but Tony had insisted on continuing with the case. He could tell that his co-workers respected him, too. McGee and Abby both looked up to Tony; and Gibbs, well, he wasn't sure what was going on between Tony and Gibbs. They were more than just team mates, he could tell that. Until today, he'd thought it was a weird kind of father/son thing, but he'd rethought that today. He'd watched them on the drive to Trenton. They were so tuned into each other; they didn't seem to need to speak. The couple of times they had stopped, once for gas and another time for coffee, Tony had been able to complete Gibbs' sentences for him. Gibbs, he was always watching Tony out of the corner of his eye. He was still thinking about it when Tony came back out  
of the bathroom.

"So, you've worked with Gibbs for eight years, you said?" he asked. Tony nodded.

"Seems like a tough boss," Greene observed.

"What makes you say that?" Tony bristled.

"Easy kid, tough isn't necessarily a bad thing. Just meant he's got high standards and expects the best out of everyone he works with," Greene said, privately amused by how sensitive Tony was to any perceived criticism of Gibbs.

"Yeah, well, he leads by example," Tony said.

"Best way to do it," Greene nodded. "Gotta be good if you're his second in command," Greene observed.

"I got the position by default," Tony deprecated. "All the agents who were with him when I started moved on."

"And you never thought about moving on?" Greene asked.

"Not seriously," Tony said. "Gibbs needs me."

"Do you good to remember that, kid," Greene said, zeroing in on Tony. "He could have replaced you as his second any time he wanted, with someone more experienced, or with fancier credentials than good old fashioned police work. He must think you're worth keeping around," he said pointedly.

"Yeah," Tony said thoughtfully. Greene watched him drift back into his own thoughts, although this time his expression was more relaxed, and he seemed more bemused than depressed. At two thirty Greene roused Tony, and they went down to the lobby to meet Gibbs.

They grabbed a late lunch at a small diner next door to the hotel. Tony sat next to Gibbs and contented himself with absorbing the man's body heat and distinctive aroma. Greene sat across from them, and he and Gibbs played 'I can top that', as they both recounted funny and unusual things that had happened on various cases. At three forty-five they were done eating and back in the car, headed for the precinct.

After he parked the car outside the police station, Gibbs popped the trunk. "Vests are in the back. Make sure you each get one," he instructed, wanting to make sure they would be as safe as he could make them, and not knowing if the police would have extras. "Tony, you grabbed your backup gun didn't you," he asked, rather embarrassed that he hadn't thought of it until now, as he too took a vest.

"Of course," Tony answered, sounding slightly offended that Gibbs had even felt the need to ask.

"Greene, you good to go?" Gibbs checked.

"Yeah, let's go get this S.O.B." Greene said, as he grabbed the vest Tony handed him.

When they got up to Iverson's office, they were met by a handful of similarly equipped officers. "Good, you grabbed vests," Iverson nodded approvingly when he saw them. Introductions were given, and assignments handed out. Gibbs was to be in the bathroom, and Tony and Greene would be in bedroom. Two police officers would be in the apartment with them, one assigned to Gibbs and the other with Tony and Greene. There would be additional police in the stairwell above Wilson's apartment, and some covering the fire escape and front entrance. Everyone was dressed in civilian clothing, so as not to stand out, and the bullet proof vests were hidden under the outermost layer of clothing. At four fifteen the group headed out, dividing themselves up between two unremarkable looking minivans and Gibbs' Charger.

Ramson had spent the afternoon with Wilson, unwilling to let the man out of his sight. He knew better than to trust him. They'd gotten lucky when Douglas had been threatening enough to scare Wilson into coming to them, but that was no guarantee that he wouldn't have second thoughts. They had holed up together in Wilson's messy apartment, sitting in the living room and watching bad daytime television on Wilson's tiny television when they had run out of things to talk about, which had happened about twenty minutes after Wilson had hung up the phone on Douglas. Wilson had made them bologna sandwiches at around two, serving them on paper towels, accompanied by lukewarm coke. The one time Ramson had used the toilet, he made a mental note to be sure that he was assigned to the bedroom when it came time to hide out, not wanting to have prolonged contact with any of the bathroom surfaces. Wilson got more and more fidgety as the afternoon wore on, and Ramson periodically grilled him on how they were going to work the meet.

"Okay, tell me again what you're going to say," Ramson requested, rubbing his tired blue eyes with the base of his palm. The sleeves on his white dress shirt were rolled up, and he had long since discarded his dark green suit jacket.

Wilson rolled his eyes, but complied. "I'm going to ask him in and lead him over to the sofa. Then I'm going to tell him I have to get the camera out of the bedroom, and I'm going to go in there and get in the far corner. Then you guys are going to come out and nab him," Wilson recited for the fifth time.

"Yep, and you're not going to do anything else, right?" Ramson asked.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah – hello, sit here, stay away from him, and get my ass into the bedroom. That's what's going to happen," Wilson said.

At four, the tech guys showed up, planting listening devices and mini video cameras around the apartment, just in case. That would let the officers outside of the apartment know what was going on inside, in case they needed to come in through the front door. Finally, at a little before five, the main force showed up. Iverson got the officers who would be stationed around the apartment and in the stairwell in place, making sure they weren't visible to a casual observer. Then he, Gibbs, Tony, Greene and one other detective went into the building.

Handshakes were exchanged all around, then a plan was articulated. Ransom would hide in the bedroom with Tony and Greene. When Wilson came into the room, supposedly to get the camera, it would be Ransom who went back into the living room, gun drawn and ready to apprehend Douglas. Then the other men would come out, providing back up and showing Douglas that there was no point in resisting arrest. The officers outside the apartment would then come through the front door, surrounding Douglas on all sides. No one could find any holes in the plan, and the men moved into position. Captain Iverson waited until everyone was in place, and then took his exit, planning to wait in the stairwell with the other officers. Wilson was left alone in his living room for the first time all day.

Douglas had spent the afternoon doing what he could to establish a new identity. He'd gotten his freshly dyed, dark brown hair cut, and had even gone so far as to find a theatrical costume shop, where he had purchased a moustache, spirit gum to apply it with, and dark framed glasses. He thought about stopping at Goodwill to get new clothes, but couldn't bring himself to put on someone else's discarded clothing. By three o'clock he was bored, and so he stepped into a small internet café, intent on getting a coffee and killing some time. After prepaying for two hours of internet time, he sat down in front of a computer terminal, and logged on. He went to MSN's homepage, and spent several minutes catching up on the news. Then, out of curiosity, and because he couldn't seem to get him out of his mind, he did a web search on Anthony DiNozzo. After whittling down the choices by what he knew, NCIS and Philadelphia Police Department, he finally had a few articles that mentioned the man. All of the entries were newspaper articles, citing DiNozzo's part in apprehending some criminal or another. There was one small picture attached to one of the stories, and Douglas found himself staring at it for close to an hour. He had come to hate everything about DiNozzo – his perfectly cut and styled hair, his green eyes, his chiseled features, and his strong shoulders and narrow hips. He imagined what he would look like with a bullet between his eyes, or a knife sticking out of his chest, or better yet, with a noose around his neck, his swollen tongue sticking out. That image made him laugh out loud, until he became aware of the people around him staring.

Becoming self conscious, he went back to the home page and typed in another name, Cassie Edwards. Looking at what the computer had to offer, he didn't find any articles he hadn't already read. Then he tried Sarah Douglas, finally spotting her obituary in the pages offered by the computer. This was a game he played periodically. Then he remembered that he had a new name to try. He typed in Walter Summers + Washington D.C. and pressed images. Scanning the pictures, he finally found the Summers he was looking for. He clicked on the picture, which took him to a family website. Reading the information, he learned that Summers had been a pharmaceutical rep, and had been married with three children. The website had a series of family pictures, and he looked them over, hoping for some kind of indication of what kind of man he had been. Everyone in the pictures looked happy, glad to be with each other, and enjoying what they were doing. There were pictures of them boating, swimming, and even building a snowman. Sometimes the wife was present, but often times not. Douglas figured she was the main photographer in the family. Finally he bored of his game, and looking at his watch, he saw that it was five thirty. Closing down the computer, he grabbed his half full coffee cup, and went out to grab a cab.

On the ride over to Wilson's apartment, he sat fingering the gun in the pocket of the jacket he wore under a dark blue overcoat. He was glad he'd kept DiNozzo's gun. He liked carrying it; it made him feel powerful. Plus, he would need it later on. He had no intention of letting Wilson live after he had supplied him with the materials he needed. He didn't want anyone to know his new identity. He wished he could get the name of the person who was supplying Wilson with the documents, and pondered ways he might be able to torture the information out of Wilson, before he killed him. If he played it right, he might be able to hang on to all of his money, also, which would be a real plus. It was going to take him time to get set up again, and having all of his funds available would make it that much easier. He was debating the merits of opening his own private practice, somewhere out in the West, when the cab came to a halt.

Wilson heard the knocking at his door at five minutes till six. Taking a couple of deep breaths and swallowing a few times, he called out, "I'm coming, hang on."

When he got the door open, he was surprised by Douglas' appearance. His hair was now shorter and dark brown. He wore a bushy moustache over his top lip and had on dark glasses.

"You sure look different," Wilson greeted Douglas with. "Come on in."

"Doesn't make sense to have pictures taken looking like my old self," Douglas reminded Wilson, as he looked around the apartment. He was disgusted by what he saw. This was as bad as the hotel he'd stayed in that last night in D.C., he thought to himself, as his eyes fixated on a pile of dirty laundry shoved in the corner of the living room. Looking to his left, he could see dirty dishes stacked in the sink of the galley kitchen, which opened up into the main room. He could just imagine the roaches which were probably creeping around the floor and in the drawers. He was going to need a shower when he left here, he told himself.

"Come have a seat in the living room," Wilson said, gesturing to the sofa, which sagged in the middle.

Douglas bypassed the sofa, choosing to sit instead in the easy chair which faced the bedroom and bathroom doors, leaving his back to the kitchenette area.

"Let me get your coat for you," Wilson offered, and crossed over to Douglas, his nerves suddenly transforming him into the perfect host. Just as he was reaching for the navy blue coat, there was a discernable noise coming from the bedroom.

Douglas bolted out of the chair, drawing the gun in his jacket pocket, and pulled Wilson to him. "Who's here," he demanded. "Come out now, or I'll blow his head off," he said, having succeeded in wrapping an arm around Wilson's neck and pressing the gun to his temple. Even as he spoke, he began to move backwards, toward the kitchen counter, dragging Wilson with him. When they got to the kitchen area he hissed at Wilson, "Hold still, don't think for one minute I won't kill you." Then he raised his arm, and pointed it towards the bedroom.

In the bedroom, Tony, Greene and Ramson stood looking at each other, temporarily frozen. Ramson had been hiding behind the bed, and apparently his sinuses had taken all they could of the filth and dust in Wilson's apartment. The noise Douglas had heard was the sound Ransom had made as he tried to stifle a sneezing attack. Tony and Greene had been on either side of the doorway, prepared to cover Ramson when he went out. Now they had a decision to make. Tony peered out of the door, and was able to see just a part of Douglas and Wilson, although it was clear Douglas had his arm wrapped tightly around Wilson. Douglas' right arm was visible; it was extended and pointed towards the bedroom door, a gun held tightly in his hand. Tony made a motion, indicating that he would go through the door, and Ramson, who was fighting off another round of sneezes, had no choice but to agree. Tony looked over at Greene and mouthed, "Cover me," and then with his gun held aloft, he stepped through the door, yelling "NCIS, drop your weapon."

When Douglas saw DiNozzo, he couldn't believe his eyes. The man was like a ghost, haunting his every step. Something inside Douglas just snapped. Maybe it had already been frayed close to the breaking point, but seeing Tony was like the final cut. "It can't be you, you cock sucker," he screamed, and then he fired his gun, using Wilson as a human shield.

Greene had been watching out the door, and when he saw Douglas prepare to fire, and realized that Tony didn't have a clean shot, he had stepped through the door, pushing Tony out of the way, just in time. Unfortunately, Greene didn't have time to get himself clear of the bullet, too.

At the sound of the gunshot, all hell broke loose. Gibbs and the officer in the bathroom came out, guns held high, and the front door opened, and police streamed in. More shots were fired, and when it was all done, Wilson lay limp on the floor, and Douglas, who had dropped his gun, was pressing down on a gunshot wound to his arm. Tony was on the floor, Greene's head cradled in his lap, blood seeping out of the gunshot wound on Greene's neck all over Tony's white shirt and jeans, as Tony futilely tried to staunch the bleeding. Greene's eyes were still open, and he looked up at Tony. Using all his last remaining strength, Greene pushed Tony's hand away, and covered the blood stained hand with his own, locking his fingers around Tony's. Giving the hand one weak squeeze, he slowly closed his eyes.

Tony was now screaming for paramedics, as the other police officers secured Douglas and called for an ambulance. Gibbs crossed over to Tony, taking in the scene. He could tell it was too late for Greene, but didn't know what to do except leave Tony there, holding Greene, until the paramedics showed up. When the ambulance finally arrived, and the paramedics got to the room, they loaded Greene onto a gurney, trying to find any sign of a pulse. Gibbs pulled Tony out of the way, and found out what hospital they were transporting him to, then after checking in with Iverson, promising that they would give statements later, he led Tony out to their car.

When they arrived at the hospital, it played out pretty much the way Gibbs had expected. The ER doctors had declared Greene dead on arrival, and wheeled Wilson directly to surgery. Gibbs made the necessary calls to Greene's captain in D.C. and Vance, letting them know what had happened. Arrangements were made for transferring his body back home, and by the time Gibbs was hanging up, Iverson had arrived, Det. Ramson in tow. All the while Gibbs had been on the phone, Tony had sat mute in a chair in the waiting room of the ER. Everyone else in the room gave him a wide berth when they saw him. His lap and hands were covered in blood, and somewhere along the way he had smeared it on his face and in his hair. Iverson took one look at Tony, and volunteered to let them give their accounts right there, to he and Ramson, saying they could come into the precinct the next morning to make a more formal statement. It didn't take more than fifteen minutes for Gibbs and Tony to recite what had happened. Tony recounted the events in a wooden voice, devoid of emotion, while Gibbs sat beside him, watching him carefully. Once they were done, Gibbs once again steered Tony to the car, and drove them back to the hotel.

When they got to the hotel, Gibbs didn't even suggest going to Tony's room; he merely guided the younger man up to his own room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Gibbs said gently, "Let's get you out of these clothes and into the shower, Tony." Tony didn't resist Gibbs efforts to undress him, but he didn't help either. He bent his arms and lifted his legs when instructed, but otherwise remained removed from the entire operation. Gibbs understood what was going on, even if he didn't know exactly what to say. He'd been in combat situations before, and had watched friends being shot down before his eyes. He knew how the brain could just shut itself off, trying to give its host time to absorb the shock.

Murmuring meaningless words of encouragement, Gibbs finally led a now naked and shivering Tony to the bathroom. Turning on the shower to let it heat up, Gibbs quickly shucked his own clothing, while Tony stood mutely in the middle of the room. When the water was warm enough, Gibbs guided Tony into the bathtub, and climbed in behind him. He positioned Tony so that the water beat down directly over his head and then reached around the still body to grab the bar of bath soap that lay in the holder. After opening the bar, he held his hands out to get them wet. Working the soap up into a lather, he started at the top of Tony's head and began to scrub. He proceeded to wash every inch of Tony, paying special attention to his hands and arms, unwrapping the blood soaked bandages, anxious to make sure that not a drop of Greene's blood remained on his body. When he was finally satisfied that Tony was clean and properly rinsed off, he reached back around him and turned the water off.

The cessation of the shower seemed to snap Tony out of his fog. Looking at Gibbs, he suddenly reached out and pinned the older man against the back of the shower, holding him in place with his wet body. Gibbs didn't try to struggle; he willed his body limp, and waited to see what Tony was going to do. Tony just looked at Gibbs for several long moments, then without warning, he leaned in, capturing Gibbs' lips in an almost brutal kiss. Gibbs just allowed the kiss to go on, not really returning it, but not fighting it either. Tony's hands began to roam across his body, almost franticly touching and kneading. When Tony reached for his cock, squeezing and pulling, Gibbs' body could not help but respond. Giving in to the inevitable, Gibbs returned Tony's kiss, wrapping his arms around him, and holding him while Tony did as he pleased. Tony was rubbing against him now, his body broadcasting his own needs and desires.

"I need you to take me now," Tony said. "I need you to fuck me," he almost pleaded.

"I'll make love to you," Gibbs said, not willing to let Tony turn sex into a way of punishing himself, but understanding Tony's need for physical connection, "but I'm not going to fuck you," he said. "Is that what you want, Tony? Do you want to make love with me?" When Tony nodded, Gibbs pushed him away far enough so that he could step out of the tub, drawing Tony out with him. Gibbs led him to the bedroom, stopping only to grab some lotion and a towel off the counter in the bathroom as he walked by it. When they got to the bed, Tony once more became the aggressor, lying down on the bed and dragging Gibbs down with him. Tony latched his mouth onto one of Gibbs' nipples, sucking and lightly biting, while his hands reached to encase Gibbs' balls and cock. Gibbs just let him have his way, softly running his own hands through Tony's hair, creating a slow counter point to Tony's near frenzy.

Finally, Tony spread his legs wide, and moaned, "Now."

Gibbs gently extracted his hands from Tony's hair, and reached for the lotion. Sliding down a bit, he poured lotion on both his hand and Tony's opening. Then very gently he began to work Tony open. Tony lifted his arms and covered his face with them, while Gibbs worked. When Gibbs felt Tony was ready, he slid back up, and carefully moved Tony's arms from off his face. "I don't have a condom, Tony, but I'm clean. I know you are too, because I get your medical reports. Are you okay with this?" he asked.

Tony didn't answer, he just lifted his head and kissed Gibbs, then wrapped his legs around Gibbs body. Gibbs repositioned himself so that he could gain entry, and then he slowly pushed into Tony. Once he was fully in, he began to move, reaching one hand down to stroke Tony as he thrust. He didn't try to be gentle, he knew that wasn't what Tony wanted, or needed. Tony needed to be reminded that he was alive, and that someone cared for him, and Gibbs thrust hard, each stroke intended to drive that point home. Tony arched his hips up into each thrust, in an attempt to allow Gibbs even deeper access. It didn't take long for either man to reach their limit. As Tony came, loud and hard, he took Gibbs over the edge with him.

When they were done, Gibbs grabbed the towel he had set down on the bed, and cleaned them both off as best he could. Then he pulled Tony over to him, and gently kissed away the tears that had started to fall, right before Tony had come. Tony wrapped himself up tighter in Gibbs' embrace, and that's the way they fell asleep.


	19. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty:  
**

It had been four weeks since that awful night in Trenton, and Tony and Gibbs had spent more time together than apart. In the days following the events in New Jersey, Greene's body had been returned to D.C., and he had been buried, with full honors. Both Tony and Gibbs had attended the funeral. Wilson had also died, but he had been buried without a formal funeral, since no one seemed to care enough to organize one. Douglas' bullet wound had been repaired, and he had also been transferred back to Washington, into the METRO police's custody. Gibbs had made no attempt to change that, figuring that the police had taken the hardest hit, and had been content enough when Greene's captain had allowed both he and Tony to participate in the questioning.

Realizing that there would be no way of denying what had happened, since the entire scene had been captured on video cameras, Douglas had angled for a deal. He was going to jail; there was no way around that reality. You didn't shoot and kill a cop and get away with it. No, what he wanted to do was to avoid the death penalty. Finally, after much wrangling with the district attorney assigned to the case, an agreement had been reached. Douglas confessed to the murder of Greene and his wife, telling how he had spiked the orange juice, which he knew she drank every morning. He confirmed the information McGee had gotten out of Sarah's lawyer, that he had found out that she was planning on divorcing him, and suing him for half of their communal property and savings. He had even confessed to killing Summers', and had told the police approximately where they could find the body. But he hadn't mentioned Cassie Edwards until Tony brought her up.

"Aren't you forgetting someone?" Tony had demanded, right after Douglas had told them about Summers.

"I don't think so," Douglas had said with a smirk, enjoying the anger he saw in DiNozzo's eyes.

"What about Cassie Edwards? You know, the woman that was carrying your baby," Tony said through gritted teeth.

"Oh yes, lovely Cassie, how could I have forgotten her? How careless of me! Exactly what is it you want to know, Officer DiNozzo?" Douglas had replied, deliberately using the wrong title for Tony.

Tony ignored the intended slam, since he didn't think there was anything wrong with being a cop, and because he was unwilling to play Douglas' game. "I want to know what you did to her," he said.

"Cassie became quite a problem for me. You see, even though we had broken up, she felt I had an obligation to help her through her pregnancy, and then to provide financial support for her and some snot nosed kid I didn't want in the first place. That would have destroyed the plans I had made for my life. You can see why I had to make sure that didn't happen," he said with a smirk, deliberately not answering Tony's question fully.

"And just how did you do that," Tony pressed.

"Well, the first time is always sloppy, you know," Douglas had said, pretending to be embarrassed. "One gets better with practice. I actually killed her by accident. We were out in the big city park, just off from the campus, and she grabbed me when I turned to walk away from her. I swung my arm to shake her off, and she fell, slamming her head onto a stone fence which surrounded the woods. I'm afraid the fall proved fatal for dear Cassie," he said, feigning sorrow.

"So what did you do with her body?" Tony demanded.

"Hard to say," Douglas said, sensing he was getting to Tony. "There's a wishing well, on the edge of the park. Cassie was always fond of it; tossing money away and making stupid wishes. Why don't you try pitching a penny down it? Maybe Cassie will catch it and grant you a wish," he gloated.

Tony had wanted to shove his fist down Douglas' throat, but Gibbs must have sensed it, because he had put a restraining hand on Tony's arm. He had then thanked the METRO police for allowing them to participate in the interrogation, and shepherded Tony out of the room. "It wouldn't have been worth it, Tony," he said, after they were out of the room. "He wanted you to do something stupid. It was the only way he could get at you. Don't worry; he'll get what's coming to him. I doubt if he'll be very popular in prison. He won't know when to keep his mouth shut. I don't think he's likely to survive the experience," Gibbs assured him.

That had been three and a half weeks ago. The wishing well that Douglas had referred to had been drained, and at the bottom they had found bones and a small locket, that Cassie's mother had identified as having been Cassie's. The bones had been tested to confirm her identity, and then given to her parents, to be buried under the tombstone they had erected years ago, when they had her declared dead.

Now, four weeks and a few days after it had all begun, Tony stood in the D.C. airport early on a Saturday morning, waiting for the plane that would take him to White Plains, NY. In his hands he held a magnificent bouquet of flowers, featuring pink and yellow roses.

Yesterday, at lunch, when Gibbs had asked him what he wanted to do that weekend, he had told him that he had some personal matters he needed to take care of, and that he wouldn't be free to do anything until Sunday. Gibbs hadn't asked any questions, although he had been curious. Instead he had watched an unusually restrained Tony carefully the rest of the day, and clearly wasn't happy when he had begged off having dinner and watching a movie that evening, saying he just needed some time alone in his own apartment that night. Gibbs had spent all evening puzzling out what was going on with Tony. Their relationship had only strengthened over the passing weeks, and he had thought that Tony's days of keeping secrets were over. Finally, at around two in the morning, something had dawned on Gibbs. Rushing up the stairs, he had grabbed his wallet and car keys, and headed out the door.

Tony stepped out of the airport in White Plains, and paused to breathe in the clean, crisp air. It was the kind of fall day that made the Northeast a tourist destination during October and November. As he looked around him, he could see the red and gold blaze of the trees, and knew that yards would be decorated with pumpkins and bales of hay, chrysanthemums offering up the last blooms of the year. Shifting the bouquet to his other hand, he raised his right arm and hailed a cab. As he got in, he gave the cabbie the address he had pulled off the web, and sat back in the seat, absently watching the scenery as his mind cast back over everything that had happened recently. When they got to the gates, Tony stepped out, and talked to a man in the office of the small building housed right inside the fence. Giving him the name he was looking for, the man pulled out a map, and showed Tony where to go. Tony took the information back out to the cabbie, and off they went. As the cab pulled to a stop and the driver indicated to Tony that they had arrived, Tony looked around. The cab driver had parked right behind another vehicle, a black Charger, and Tony wasn't even surprised to see Gibbs leaning against the car, his arms crossed, just waiting. Tony had long since accepted the fact that Gibbs often seemed to understand him better than he understood himself. Tony paid the man, and told him he wouldn't need him to wait after all, assuring him he had another way back to the airport, and then he got out, taking the flowers with him.

Tony didn't acknowledge Gibbs as he walked towards the tombstones to his right. Instead he studied the rows, looking for the marker which would indicate the correct row. When he found it, he hurried ahead, reading off the names as he went. Finally he came to what he had been looking for, a plain marble headstone, unadorned and neglected, with just a name carved into it, Cassie Edwards. Tony felt anger bubbling up when he realized that her parents hadn't even bothered to have her birth date engraved into the marble. Well, he guessed that would have necessitated a date of death also, and since they hadn't known that when the stone had been commissioned, they had apparently opted to have almost nothing put on it. Sadness replaced the anger. 'Just a name,' Tony thought. That's what Cassie had become to so many people, but not to him.

Sinking to his knees, he propped the bouquet up against the headstone. "I brought you flowers Cassie. I hope you like roses. I got you pink and yellow ones because they always make me think of summer, and long walks in the park." Tony paused, thinking about what he wanted to say.

"We got Douglas for you. Not before he killed three other people, though." Again Tony fell silent. He didn't really understand why it had become so important that he visit her grave, and yet the compulsion had been getting stronger and stronger over the past couple of weeks. He had pulled her file out one night, and tried talking to her picture, the way he used to, but hadn't found any closure. Finally, two days ago he had given in to the urge, and had booked a flight for today, somehow knowing that he wouldn't be satisfied until he came to the place she now rested. "I just wanted to come here and tell you in person. I wanted you to know that someone really cared about you; cared enough to go out of their way to make sure you knew you weren't alone or forgotten. So anyway, that's why I'm here I guess."

Tony stood and brushed some crushed leaves off the knees of his pants. "I'll try to come back and see you again," he promised. "I've arranged to have flowers put on your grave once a month, so even if I can't come, that should remind you that someone is thinking about you. I hope you can sleep now, knowing that Douglas can't hurt anyone else, ever again." He looked down at the flowers; on impulse, he reached down and gently pulled one yellow rose from the bouquet. "I'm going to take this flower back with me, if that's okay with you. That way we'll both have something we've shared." With that farewell, he turned and walked back the way he'd come.

When he got to Gibbs' car, he looked over at the man waiting for him, his brow creased with worry. "Are you okay, Tony?" Gibbs asked him, as he pushed away from where he was leaning.

Tony smiled at him, as Gibbs reached out to draw him close. "Yeah, I am," he said, surprised when he realized he was telling the truth. "Better than okay, actually," he said, as he let himself be drawn in for a kiss.

"Then let's go home," Gibbs said softly into Tony's ear.

"_Whether joy or sorrowful, the heart needs a double, because a joy shared is doubled and a pain that is shared is divided_." Ruckett


End file.
